Peter, Prue Ch. 01

How young she looks, Julia thought.

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

Her gratuitous moralizing.

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

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

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

***

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

Like Peter Hawkins.

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

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

Who did he ever think he was?

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

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

***

Prue begged Julia to stay the night with her.

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

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

Prue Gascoyne had grown up in utter security.

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

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

Julia restored Prue's sense of security.

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

Then she met Peter Hawkins and everything else vanished.

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

Until yesterday.

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

Was it because he looked down?

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

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

Then she took off his shirt and kissed his chest.

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

She had the face of Julia.

Panting, Prue sat up in her bed.

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

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

***

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

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

Then his misery returned.

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

He loved hot showers.

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

He felt the balls roll within.

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

Julia looked up.

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

Prue sighed. She stared at her juice glass.

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

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

Julia shrugged.

"I already tried," she said.

"Try again."

"Stay with me, Jules, please."

"Can't. Sorry."

***

He tried to taste the bacon.

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

Did he like children?

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

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

"Peter!"

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

"Jules!" he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Intimidating was the word indeed.

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

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

Julia blinked.

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

He looked away; then he returned his gaze.

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

Julia's hand went to her mouth.

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

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

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

He nodded.

"She did. I found out yesterday."

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

"The bitch," he heard her whisper.

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

He realized she wasn't surprised - not really.

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

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

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

His heart missed a beat.

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

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

His phone rang.

***

After Julia left, Prue kept sitting at her table.

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

But now she didn't dare call him.

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

And Peter never carried a grudge for long.

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

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

It was about him.

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

She wasn't his center of the world anymore.

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

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

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

She hit the button.

***

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

Obviously, she thought.

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

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

Beeps followed a click.

***

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

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

And the men, his brain added bitterly.

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

She just loved to dance more than he did.

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

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

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

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

She'd smiled with raised eyebrows.

"Then why do it?"

He'd shrugged.

"I guess I want her to admit."

Her sudden peal of laughter startled him.

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

"Me?"

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

Peter stared at her.

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

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

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

"What do you mean, from before?"

She smiled; then looked away.

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

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

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

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

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

"She just left him," it said.

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

His hands trembled.

"Hi Pete."

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

Prue kept standing, as he didn't rise.

"Pete?" she repeated.

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

Confusion clouded her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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