I Accept Ch. 01

Becky Reese jumped as a door downstairs slammed. Her father was home.

Almost immediately, she heard raised voices. Her parents had started arguing. She could never make out what they were fighting about, but it seemed like almost every day now.

She tucked her dark red hair behind her ears and sighed, trying to concentrate on the tablet computer in front of her. The news was not good. The media company she'd been doing corporate art for the last six months had just declared bankruptcy. That was the last steady paying job she had, gone up in smoke. They wouldn't be paying her for work she'd already done.

She sighed and tapped the email client with her thumb, closing it. She sat back in the confines of her cramped attic room, twirling the table stylus between her thumb and forefinger.

That about summed up this year. At twenty-five, she'd already had to move home with her parents because she couldn't afford a place of her own. Her parents had agreed to let her pay reduced rent and part of the bills, although grudgingly. Her father, in particular, hadn't seemed too eager about it.

They had given her the attic room and mostly left her alone. Becky paid the "rent" on time and helped with what expenses she could. But it was frustrating. Trying to make a living with her art had proven a losing proposition, and what was left over was barely enough to cover her student loans and credit card debt.

All she did was work. It had been months since she'd been on anything like a date - not that she felt much like dating. Guys, with a few exceptions, were mostly idiots, and she didn't have the patience to deal with them even if she'd had an apartment of her own to come back to. Even anonymous sex seemed like too much of a chore to bother with.

The one big advantage to working from home, such as she did, was the attic had plenty of privacy. The only window faced the street, and was too high up to see in from below. To get to her room, one had to go through two doors and a set of stairs. If she wanted to lounge around in her underwear, or even naked, she was free to do so. Plenty of time to grab a robe if she heard someone stomping up the stairs. Her parents preferred to text her anyway, since they were more tech-savvy than most.

Becky was working naked right now, as was her privilege. Though her parents had cleared out much of the attic to make room for her, the attic still carried an array of old antiques and possessions going back generations.

She'd set up an old antique standing mirror at a right angle from her desk. She turned and looked at herself now: five-foot-four, pale, freckled, long red hair. Breasts small but nicely shaped, stomach trim and muscular from morning crunches and intermittent poverty. She wore only a pair of pink slippers to keep her feet warm.

She sighed and stretched, admiring herself, feeling a bit narcissistic, but refusing to feel bad about it. Working naked wasn't just a privilege. It was a necessity in this house, when her parents blasted the heat all winter and refused to turn on the air conditioning in the summer.

Another door slammed downstairs. Becky looked at the framed picture on the old antique desk and sighed. Her, her father, and her mother, all smiling at a trip to New Orleans five years ago. Her dad, stocky and bearded, a pepper-haired mountain of a man, smiling ear-to-ear with an arm around each of them. They'd all been so happy. It seemed like an eternity ago.

Becky swiveled in her chair, lost in thought. As she turned in place, she caught sight of her battered journal, sitting on the nightstand by the bed, the little gel pen she always used resting on top.

The sight made her sigh with melancholy. For the longest time, her journal had been an important part of her daily routine, something that grounded her and kept her happy. She had written in it through good times and bad, and it had helped keep her sane during the more difficult stretches of college.

But lately, she had been making only short, perfunctory entries, or even neglecting the journal entirely. There didn't seem to be much to say beyond chronicling work and sleep. Even her dreams had become drab. There just didn't seem to be much to say.

Becky hadn't made a journal entry in days. She supposed she probably should, to talk about her negative feelings if nothing else - but motivation was thin on the ground.

The truth was, she needed some kind of change - but her employer going bankrupt wasn't what she'd had in mind.

Her stomach rumbled. It was time to venture downstairs for some food. The thought filled her with a cold pang of dread, but there wasn't any way to avoid it. No one would deliver a pizza up here. She'd tried. And she couldn't afford it anyway.

She considered putting on a robe and leaving it at that, but decided at the last minute to pull on sweatpants and a loose-fitting sweater. Her dad already gave her enough grief about living at home. She didn't need a remark about her wardrobe, too.

***

"Becky."

Becky shrieked and stood bolt upright from where she'd been bent over, head buried in the refrigerator. She turned to see her father, Vernon Reese, standing in the kitchen entryway, a steaming mug in his hand. He'd changed from his business attire to a button-up white shirt and slacks. He was so broad-shouldered, he seemed to fill up the entire room, even though he was barely standing in it.

"Shit, Dad! You scared the living piss out of me." How did a man that big move so quietly?

"Don't use vulgar language, Rebecca. Did you drink the last of the milk?"

He asked in a bland, disinterested manner, but Becky still felt a rush of guilt. She'd used the last of the milk for the cereal she'd had for lunch. She'd been in a rush to finish the latest round of infographics for the company she'd been working for - which, apparently, would not be paying her for her time. So glad she'd rushed.

"I did, Dad, I'm sorry. I can go get-"

He drew in a breath, and Becky knew she was in for a speech. Her dad was a quiet, loving man, but he also enjoyed a good lecture when he was miffed.

"Becky, you know I like to have milk in my coffee when I come home from work. Black coffee upsets my stomach. I don't ask much in return for you living here, Becky, but I do ask-"

"Dad, I can go get more milk."

"I do ask that you respect my wishes. If you're going to use all the milk, please replace what you use."

"Dad. I can go. Get. More. Milk."

He raised two bushy eyebrows. "Becky, there's no call to be impertinent. I've said my piece."

She suppressed a sigh of frustration. "Can I borrow the car?"

He shrugged. "Ask your mother."

***

Becky found Marilyn Reese in the study, stuffing envelopes for some new political activism she was into. Becky didn't even ask anymore. Every couple of months her mother would embrace some righteous new cause, only to find a way to abandon it a handful of weeks later.

"Mom?"

Marilyn stopped what she was doing and swiveled in her chair, turning to face her daughter. A smile creased her face. Her mother had just turned a radiant fifty, her own red hair turning gracefully silver, her frame athletic and sleek, like a queen lioness. Marilyn Reese ran daily and had finished a 10K every year for the last twenty years. All the same, Becky thought she looked a little peaked and worn. Like something was getting her down. Maybe all that fighting with Dad.

"Hi, sweetie. What can I do for you?"

"I accidentally drank all the milk, and Dad's kinda pissed. Can I use the car to go to the market and get more?"

Marilyn laughed softly. "Oh, honey, he'll survive without milk in his coffee for one night."

"Maybe so, but I'd feel a lot better about it if I could just get more. He kinda mentioned the part about me living here."

A flicker of annoyance crossed Marilyn's face. "Oh, hell, Becky. You know we love having you here. You pay your share."

Not for long, she thought. Becky felt a tug of fatigue. Why did everything have to be so complex and difficult?

"Can I use the car to go get more milk? I could stand to get out of here anyway."

Marilyn nodded graciously - a little over-graciously, for Becky's taste; she disliked having to beg to use transportation, but she had no other choice - and fished in her purse for a minute before handing over the keys.

"Thank you, Mom."

"Actually, honey, could you pick up a couple more things for me while you're out? I made a list." Marilyn handed Becky her smartphone. Becky squinted at the screen and found a list app with a dozen items on it.

"Am I supposed to memorize this?"

Marilyn waved a hand. "Just take the phone, Becky. The market's not that far."

"What's the passcode?"

"One-one-one-one."

Becky sighed. "Mom."

"What?"

"Nothing. Thank you for the keys. I'll get the groceries."

***

Feeling too lazy to change, Becky traded her slippers for a pair of boots and shrugged on a coat before venturing out. It was a snowy, chilly night, and her breath plumed blue-white in the moonlit air.

She got in the car and started it, taking a minute to adjust the seat while it warmed up. Her dad was so much bigger than her, she couldn't have reached the pedals if she left the seat where it was.

As she drove the six snowy blocks to the market, she thought about what she was going to do, now that her main source of income - meager though it was - was out of business. She could probably pick up a few commissions on social media, or go find a gig on one of the content farms. But none of it was going to get her closer to getting an apartment of her own. She was already working full-time hours and barely scraping by. At the end of most workdays, she had just enough time and energy left over to regret her art degree.

Becky felt a wave of regret well up inside her and pushed it away as she pulled into the parking lot of the market. She'd made the choices she'd made. It was her responsibility to live with them. She just hated being a burden on her parents.

She sighed, took out her mother's phone, and stepped out of the car into the frosty night.

***

It was late, and Miller's Market had a hushed, funereal feel. It was an old family establishment, one of the few places left in Donner Bay that wasn't a chain. The owners turned off half the lights at night, making everything seem a little bit surreal.

Becky grabbed a cart and made her way through the store, checking things off as she went. She got the milk first so she wouldn't forget, She could only imagine the disapproving stare from her dad if she did. The rest of the items were bland and unexciting, much like Becky's own life.

As she shopped, she cultivated a fantasy of meeting some cute guy in the aisles. Striking up a conversation. Going back to his apartment for no-strings-attached sex, because no way was she going to bring a guy back to her cramped attic room in her parents' place. She let her imagination run free, let the fantasy sex get a little rough and slightly kinky: handcuffs, spanking, some light choking.

Her daily life was nothing but work and worrying about money. The idea of being someone's sex slave, even for just an hour or two, felt like heaven. Being able to set aside her own burdens and problems and just submit.

But it seemed that kind of life was not in her near future. Not until she figured out her job situation, anyway.

No cute guys presented themselves in the aisles. There was one older man with an appealingly distinguished look, but he didn't even glance in her direction. Idly, she wondered if he was into spanking. She briefly considered walking up and asking him point-blank.

She sighed as she tossed a can of water chestnuts into her cart. She really needed to get laid.

Despite the late hour and graveyard aesthetics, there was still a line at the only checkout lane. The pretty young woman with brown hair at the checkstand worked with slow deliberation.

Becky distracted herself by staring into space for a few minutes before taking her mom's phone from her pocket to make sure she'd gotten everything. She had. She closed the app with a swipe of her thumb - and froze where she stood.

Behind the list app was her mother's messaging app. The latest message was a selfie of a young woman, about Becky's age, but in braces and pigtails. She wore a tight-fitting pink shirt that said I <3 DADDY - and nothing else.

"The fuck?" Becky muttered. For a second, she simply couldn't register what she was seeing. Was her dad sending her mom messages like this? And she was sending them back?

Becky knew she should have put the phone away instantly. It was wrong to snoop on someone else's messages. She would be invading her mom's privacy. She put the phone back in her pocket and tried very hard to push it out of her mind.

She managed to check out, get her groceries to the car, and put herself back in the driver's seat before her will crumbled. She started the vehicle and turned on the heater, stared at the dashboard for a moment while she wrestled with her conscience, then pulled out the phone again. Feeling guilty and ashamed and intrigued all at once, she started scrolling through the photos.

The message history was nothing but photos. It looked like a secure messaging app, encrypted and separate from their regular text messages. It seemed her mother and father used it exclusively to swap photographs. They were all, to the last, pornographic.

As she scrolled through, she picked up a couple of distinct themes: young women with a daddy fetish, often dressed to make themselves look even younger. Threesomes with an older couple and a younger woman. Sex between an older man and a younger woman, usually in household situations, sometimes with an incestuous caption or dialogue added. Many were a combination of all three.

"Fucking what?" Becky whispered as she kept scrolling. These weren't light, softcore photos. Most were explicit, even kinky. Her parents were into this? It didn't seem possible. It felt like she was being trolled.

A cold fist clenched in her gut as she realized how sharp-eyed her mother was. She could end up suspecting Becky had been snooping on her phone. She solved the problem by switching it off, feeling a whisper of relief as the screen went black.

"Now to just never think about this again," she said to herself as she put the car into gear.

***

Becky drove home, put the groceries away, including the milk, which she placed prominently up front. She finally made the food she'd come downstairs to get in the first place: a frozen meal she'd picked up while at the market.

Her mom wasn't in her study, and their bedroom door was closed. Trying not to think about what that meant, Becky left her mom's phone on the kitchen table, then took her microwaved dinner upstairs to eat in peace.

As she ate, she thought about the money she'd paid for the groceries. She hadn't asked for cash to cover the expense, and her mom hadn't offered. She didn't mind paying her fair share, but with her main source of income gone, that money hurt. Meeting rent was going to be difficult. She was going to have to crack down on her budget if she hoped to get by while she looked for bigger, better work.

Becky concentrated on her financial anxiety, trying not to think about the photos she'd found in the phone. She supposed she was supposed to feel disgusted or repelled. Instead, she found herself curious. Her parents were into kink? Did they do anything besides exchange photos? If they were both into that, why were they fighting? Was the fighting part of their play?

"Okay," she said to her empty room. These weren't questions she was likely to get answers to. Truth be told, she probably didn't want answers.

She finished her dinner, threw the tray in the trash, and began stripping off her clothes to get ready for bed.

As she disrobed, she thought about opening one of the dating apps on her phone. But the thought just disappointed her ahead of time. She didn't have the time, money, or energy for dating right now. She could barely keep her own life together.

***

She woke up the next morning to light shining directly into her face from the high round attic window. Grunting, she grabbed a tee shirt from the heaped ruin of her bed and chucked it at the light. To no avail.

Yawning, she sat up and silently vowed to do something about that window. Maybe get a curtain for it, or some blinds. With what money? She had no idea. Maybe she could ask her parents if they could do something. Hope her dad was in a good mood that day and wouldn't mention she was living at home rent-free.

And just like that, she remembered why the window had no curtain, and probably wouldn't for the foreseeable future.

As she put on a long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants, she heard raised voices from downstairs. Again. A moment later, the front door slammed. She padded to the window and looked downstairs. Her dad stalked to the car, briefcase in hand, headed to work. She saw him struggle with the front seat and realized she'd forgotten to put it back.

"Oops," she whispered. She heard him utter a muffled curse as he fixed the seat. She backed away as he started the car. Well, there was another perfectly minor thing to feel guilty about for a minute or two.

Why were her parents fighting?

Becky pulled her red hair into a ponytail and headed downstairs. She found her mother sitting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and reading the news on her tablet.

"Good morning, Mom."

Her mother smiled. "There's some eggs on the stove if you want them," Marilyn said.

"Great."

"Thank you for getting the groceries last night. I appreciate that."

"Happy to help." The eggs in question turned out to be some kind of overly complicated quiche dish full of vegetables. Becky stared at it for a minute before opting to get a yogurt from the fridge instead. She sat down at the kitchen table opposite her mother.

She ate slowly in silence as her mother peered at her tablet. When it seemed clear Marilyn wasn't going to start or continue a conversation, she decided to take the plunge.

"Mom? Can I ask you a question?"

Her mother lowered the tablet. "Of course."

"Are you and Dad... fighting?"

A half-smile crossed Marilyn's face. "You heard this morning?"

"Not just this morning. Last night, and the night before. Kind of a lot lately?"

Her mother nodded. "Things are difficult right now, sweetheart. Your father is under a lot of pressure at his job, and he's frustrated."

Frustrated how? Becky wondered. But she didn't ask that part out loud. Not yet.

"Is there anything I can to help?" she asked instead.

Marilyn smiled. "We know you're already doing your best, Becky. We're all making the best of this situation."

By "this situation" Becky assumed her mother meant her living at home, taking up an attic room they probably wanted to convert into something useful. She spooned yogurt into her mouth and said nothing.

"I'm sorry you had to hear us quarreling," Marilyn said.

"It's not a problem, Mom, I just want to make sure you two are okay."

"We're fine, sweetheart. We're just going through a change right now?"

Becky's curiosity finally got the best of her. "Change? What kind of change?"

Her mother gathered her coffee pot and tablet and stood. "I think that might be a conversation for another time."

"Oh. Uh. Okay." In mild bewilderment, Becky watched her mother glide from the room. She sat alone at the kitchen table and finished her yogurt.

***

After breakfast, she went back upstairs and opened the budget app on her tablet. She'd been putting it off for the last couple of days, but there was no more stalling. She entered her expenditures for the last week and - with a wince of anxiety - removed the income she'd been expecting from her former employer.