Charlie and Mindy Bk. 02 Ch. 04

This is the fourth chapter of seven in Book 2 of the Charlie and Mindy tetralogy—which is a story of forbidden love between a brother and a sister.

While Book 2 stands on its own, it refers to events that took place in Book 1. Book 1 also contains some of Charlie and Mindy's family history that bears on the story. You may therefore want to read Book 1 before reading Book 2.

This is a rewrite of a series I posted in the past and removed for a while.

Please leave your comments. I try to respond to non-anonymous comments within a few days.

—CarlusMagnus

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Classes began the morning after my foray into crime prevention in the library's hidden lowest level. (A foray, it must be said, that my little sister Mindy and I had both thoroughly enjoyed.) And, of course, when classes began, so did homework. Most professors seemed to take seriously the rule of thumb that requires two hours' outside work for every hour spent in class. There were some exceptions: a few professors thought there should be three hours' outside work for each hour inside.

I hadn't taken that rule seriously during my freshman year; I had done only the homework I couldn't avoid—the homework that was to be handed in for a grade. In addition to reading from the assigned textbook, the part that wasn't to be submitted consisted of problems to be worked outside of class in calculus, of work in the language lab in French, and of outside reading in other courses. Mindy suggested that the presence of B's and C's on my first-year transcript reflected first, my conviction that such work was optional, and, second, that I rarely (if ever) undertook optional work on the ground that it was, well, work.

She wasn't judgmental about it. She didn't scold, she didn't dictate, and she didn't pressure me. She simply pointed out what she thought I was doing wrong. And then she asked, altogether too reasonably, if I thought my methods were compatible with the promises I'd made to her and to our parents. I say "altogether too reasonably" because I knew (at least as well as she did) that I didn't have a leg to stand on, and because she didn't even give me an opportunity to have a childish fit about how she was forcing me to change my wicked ways. She was a grown-up about it, and, it seemed, I would have to be, too—even if I didn't want to.

So on that first Monday of classes, she came to my house, immediately after our PE classes, for the first of what would be many study sessions together in my room. And George was in his own room that afternoon, doing his own studying, so Mindy and I really did study—school work, and not each other's bodies. We even left the door wide open, just as any brother and sister, studying together with nothing to hide, would have done.

We concentrated, that afternoon, on our calculus. I'd always been talented at mathematics, and I was thinking about doing my major in that subject. But we hadn't been working together for very long before Mindy was, gently but firmly, pointing out how sloppy and inefficient my study methods were. She showed me how she worked, and by the time we had finished, it was about suppertime, and I was surprised to find that it hadn't taken us much longer than I would have spent doing things according to my old habits; and, I realized, my understanding of what we had covered was even better than I would have accomplished that old way.

With that realization, a candle began to flicker in one of the unexplored back rooms of my mind. Shadows of things—fascinating things I had not known were there—appeared in its light, dim though it still was. But, despite the inefficiency of my old methods, we still found that I had deeper insights that she often found helpful in her own efforts to understand what we were studying.

Mindy lived in the dorm; her meals were already paid for in the dining hall there. George and I hadn't stocked up on groceries, yet, so there wasn't much to eat in our refrigerator. He was hungry, too, so the three of us walked to Mindy's dorm for supper. George and I had to pay cash for our meals, but that was okay. He was, however, still trying to impress Mindy—with whom I traded some knowing glances. She was going to be spending a good bit of time in the house, and we'd have to figure out something that would settle him—and Frank—down for good. Cutting their dicks off would probably work, but that didn't strike me as being a good plan.

After supper, we walked back to the house. George retired to his own room, and Mindy and I returned to my room—all to continue studying. The two of us worked on our French for about an hour-and-a-half. Again, she'd taken good notes, in French. That they were in French made a weird kind of sense to me: The class was conducted in French. And now our roles were reversed. She had a gift for language, and she helped me to better understanding of some tricky grammar. There was a language lab assignment, but we weren't expected to have it completed for a week—so we figured we could let that slide for another day or two.

It was nearly half-past eight when we decided that we could call it a day. It wasn't very dark yet, but I wasn't comfortable letting Mindy walk back to her dorm by herself. During the previous year there had been several evening incidents involving unaccompanied women, on the campus and in its neighborhood. No one had been raped, or even hurt, but some women had gotten some pretty good scares.

I mentioned that George and I would probably go out for a beer or three, and she was welcome to come. But she said that she didn't particularly want a beer, and that it sounded like "guy-time" she didn't need to share. And, when I thought about it, I decided that she was right about the "guy-time."

So we walked together to her dorm. And, naturally, in the gathering gloom, we found some dark corners where we could make out a little on the way.

In one of those dark corners, I held her close to me, my hands on her butt cheeks, and looked down at her lovely face. She smiled up at me, evidently enjoying the feel of my body against hers.

"Thanks for studying with me," I said. "You were a big help."

"So were you, lover," she replied, rubbing herself against me, still smiling. "And it's not like I don't have a stake in how you do."

"Wanna do It?" I asked.

"I do," she replied with a grin. She rubbed herself against me a little harder, making sure I felt her most interesting parts. "But we can't, here and now."

"You're right. We can't do the library trick too often, either, or we'll be asking for trouble. I have other tricks we can use. But George is a chemistry major, so he'll have a lot of afternoon labs. I'll find out when they are, and maybe…"

"Good idea, Bub. That should work. But now you'd better kiss me."

And so I did. Thoroughly.

And then I walked her home. As we walked, I had a thought. "George and Frank could be problems. If we don't head them off, one or both of them will try to hit on you," I pointed out.

"You're my big brother. Can't you just tell them I'm off-limits."

"I suppose I could, but that wouldn't be me. And George, at least, knows me well enough to pick up on that. You're a grown-up, and you can make your own decisions. If you hadn't already picked me, I'd tell them to go for it, but if they did anything to you that wasn't coincidental I'd kill them. Slowly and painfully." I was a good bit bigger than either of them, so I probably could kill either of them slowly and painfully. Possibly even both at the same time.

She looked at me with a strange expression on her face. "Coincidental? Oh. You meant consensual. Do you plan these things? Or do you really say the wrong words?"

"Consensual. Yeah. That's the word."

"Dope. But I hear what you're saying. And it wouldn't be your style. You'd stay out of it unless somebody tried to hurt me. And if somebody did try to hurt me, you'd be like a mama grizzly whose cub was being threatened. Like you were with Dan Shearer." She looked up at me, smiled. "Knowing that Mama Grizzly is nearby always makes me feel good."

I smiled back. "Yep. Mama Grizzly.

"But maybe we should make up a boyfriend you already have—and are devoted to. Say, Rod Balfour." The name had come to me out of nowhere. "He's your age, and he's going to college at…oh, how about the University of Florida. It's in Gainesville, and it's big enough and far away enough, that nobody will be able to check."

"Rod Balfour? I think I prefer Rod Hancock." She was grinning, now, as diabolically as ever.

"You would. You do like rod, and you like to get your hand on cock. But have it your way."

"Next time we have a chance, I am going to have It my way. And you're going to love it."

"I always love it. But don't change the subject, woman. Rod Hancock at UF, Gainesville. You're head over heels in love with him. You get dreamy-eyed when you talk about him. You reckon you might marry him after college, but you aren't really sure yet."

"Got it. We have to be careful about this. Conflicting stories won't do." She was getting into concocting something.

"They won't. Not major conflict, anyway. Minor inconsistencies are okay. We wouldn't see everything the same way. Have you Done It with him yet?"

"None of your business. You wouldn't know. I might tell you about a one-night stand. And I would tell you about somebody I was sure of. But not somebody in between like this. You might suspect, though."

"You're right. You might do a guy you really liked, but you probably wouldn't figure it was any of my business until you'd made up your mind whether or not he was Mr. Right. But you should know the answer to that question so you can be consistent about him. What's he look like?"

"A lot like you. It's easier to remember, and I'll be thinking about you if anyone asks about Rod and me—or me and rod…so to speak." There was the evil grin again. "It'll be easier to be consistent if I have somebody I'm in love with in mind. Just remember that he's bigger and handsomer than you. And blond. He's a blond giant. Six-four, two-thirty." She gave me another dirty grin, to impress me with my inferiority.

"I just hate it when a guy we've invented is manlier than me. Maybe I'll make myself up a girlfriend to compare you to."

She rolled her eyes. "I can just imagine. Will she ever wear clothes?"

I grinned. "Probably not. But she'll be little, like you," I said—knowing the risk.

WHAM!

She'd punched me on the upper arm. She wound up for another punch.

"I am not little!" Blue fire sparked from her eyes. She swung again, even though there was no hope of connecting—I'd ducked out of her reach.

"And she'll have boobs like yours," I added—meaning it, but also knowing it would pacify her.

It did pacify her. She tried not to smile, and didn't quite succeed. I knew that she thought her boobs were too small, and so it made her really happy that I liked them so much.

We reached her dorm. There, in public view, I said goodnight and gave her a brotherly peck on the cheek, while thinking about the cheeky way I'd give her my brotherly pecker when we weren't in public. And I returned home.

George was ready to quit studying by the time I got there, and the two of us walked down to Sarge's. The bartender knew us, and served us a pitcher without being troublesome about our ages.

As George and I drank, I ferreted out his schedule. It looked good; Mindy and I would be able to spend time alone in the apartment frequently during the week. Especially if we established a pattern of studying together there when we weren't in class, so that it would seem natural for us to be there when no one else was around.

We were working on the second pitcher when George, draining his mug, finally worked up the nerve to say it: "Your sister is really cute."

He meant, I want to lay your sister. And he knew that I understood what he meant. But the Fundamental Code of Manly Behavior prohibited him from saying it straight out—at the same time it prescribed the way to say it in ManSpeak.

I replied, "I could tell that you, Frank, and Earl all thought so. And you and Frank kind of walked all over each other's feet trying to impress her. What can I say, man? She's my sister."

That was ManSpeak for I know that you, Frank, and Earl all want her. Especially you and Frank. Whether I want her or not (and you'll never know), I can't say it because she's my sister.

"Were we that obvious?" He refilled his mug from the pitcher. No ManSpeak here—he meant what he said.

"Yeah—you were. And I could tell that she picked up on it, too. I think she liked it. What woman wouldn't like being the center of four men's attention—even if two of them are ineligible?"

I meant, and he knew that I meant, She knew that at least three of us wanted her. And, whether she puts out or not, she likes being wanted. That's definitely something I couldn't have said plainly.

"Would you mind if I asked her out?"

Here was the central question; the one the Fundamental Code dictated that he had to ask his best male friend before he could try to hit on that friend's little sister. The translation? Can I go ahead and sleep with her? Really?

"She's a grown-up. She can decide for herself. But I gotta warn you—there's a guy back home that she's pretty serious about. Serious enough that she might even be doing The Dirty Deed with him. So don't get your shorts all twisted if she says 'No'." I refilled my own mug. And I meant exactly what I said—no translation needed.

"You really don't mind?" You won't kill me—slowly, painfully, taking great pleasure from my protracted final agonies—if I try to make her? Or if I succeed?

"Like I said, she's a grown-up. Anything between her and a guy that's coincid… uhh, consensual is fine with me. But she's been my best friend ever since I can remember. We're pretty close, and we've always been there for each other. So I'm pretty protective. If anyone—even you, and you're my next best friend after her—ever hurts her, or ever doesn't take 'No' seriously when she says it, he's gonna have to deal with me being Mama Grizzly protecting her cub."

George knew that I wasn't threatening him. He really was my best friend after Mindy. (And it was probably at least a technical violation of the Fundamental Code for me to say so. But you can get away with one of those with a really close friend. Once in a while.) He understood that I'd just drawn a line, but that I knew he'd never cross that line—because he knew that I knew it was a line he wouldn't cross anyway. If the Fundamental Code didn't prohibit it, I'd have said, I'll kill any asshole who mistreats her, and I'll enjoy doing it. We both know that you aren't an asshole, so you don't need to worry about me.

What interested me most about what I'd just told him was that I realized as I said it that Mindy and I really had always been there for each other. Now, I'd always thought it was my job to be there for her, and I had always done that job as well as I could and with all my heart. So that part wasn't news to me. But it hadn't come home to me—as it should have—that she had always been there for me, too. Now it hit me like a bolt of lightning that she always had been, and always would be. The insight gave me one of the best feelings I've ever had. I grinned into my beer mug as I took a long pull from it.

"Thanks, Charlie," he said.

And we both understood that he wasn't thanking me for giving him permission to ask Mindy out (to lay her, that is, if she'd cooperate), but for the expression of trust implicit in what I'd said. Of course, neither of us could say that outright. We're guys. It would have been dangerously close to discussing feelings, and the Fundamental Code prohibits that above all else—even above stopping to ask directions.

"While we're talking about Mindy," I went on, "she and I will be studying together a lot this year. If it won't bother you, we'd like to do a good bit of that in my room. Will that cause trouble?"

"Don't see why it would," he responded. "I've never been one of those guys who wanders around his place with his dick hanging out. Or even with nothing on but my shorts

"I've been thinking that it would be nice if we could spend an hour or so in the apartment in the mornings before the nine o'clock French class we're taking together. I gave her a key to the house. Is it okay if she lets herself in sometime after seven-thirty those mornings

"No problemo. I've got that eight o'clock German class on the same days you guys have French, so I'll be getting up around seven. On Wednesdays, I've got organic chemistry at nine and nothing at eight, so I'll be an hour later that day. If she wants to come an hour later on Wednesday, that's okay, too. Either way, I'll be dressed and getting something to eat by the time she gets there. Just tell her to give us a holler on the way up the stairs—so she won't come around a corner and catch me scratching my balls." He paused to look at his watch, and he went on, "And speaking of eight o'clock German, it's almost eleven now. We'd better drink up and get back home."

I looked at my own watch. He was right, so we drank and we got.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I got up at about eight and grabbed a bowl of cereal. As I ate, I looked over some of the French we'd be thinking about in class that day. I didn't have time to get very far, but I reckoned that if I was going to do this studying thing, I'd do it right—and this was the kind of thing I knew Mindy would do. After a bit, I showered, shaved, and shoved off for French class. I arrived with about a minute to spare and found that Mindy was already there. And she had saved me a seat.

As I set my books down on the desk, I saw that Buck, an old friend from last year's French classes, was already seated in the desk behind the one where I was going to sit. I'd seen him across the classroom the day before, but hadn't had a chance to talk to him.

"Hey, Buck!" I said. "It's good to see you back."

I stuck out my right hand.

"Yo, Charlie!" He took my hand, shook it. "Good to see you, too. Who's the lady who saved your seat? She's new, isn't she?"

"She's my little sister." I turned to Mindy, who'd been watching us.

"Mindy," I said, "This is Buck. We've been flunking French exams together for a year now."

I turned back to Buck.

"Buck," I said, "This is Mindy. This is her first year here."

They greeted each other with some appropriate polite phrases as I seated myself.

But their exchange was cut short because no sooner had my butt hit the chair than Dr. Pepin, the professor, walked in. He sat on the desk at the front of the room and, as the class settled down and came to order, he asked, "Are there any questions?" (Actually, he asked it in French, but I'll record it here in English. All conversation in that class was in French.)

I raised my hand. He looked at me and smiled—I could see in his eyes a bit of surprise at the first question I'd offered to ask in the year he'd known me. (I'd taken French I and French II from him the previous year, and during that year I had spoken only when he'd forced me to.)

"Yes, Charles," he said, pronouncing my name "Sharl," in the French fashion. "Answering your question will give me great pleasure."

"I've read something I don't understand. Will you explain to me why it's Il faut que je l'apprenne, and not Il faut que je l'apprends?"