The Long, Broken Road

When the door closed, I wondered how much of that impromptu fuck fest my ex-wife overheard. Talk about awkward. But I did not have to wonder for very long. When I came out to the living room, I noticed that Brette decided to answer the door in the nude. I suspected that she knew it was Melanie at the door, and was displaying herself as my trophy. My guess is that Brette was trying to show what my ex-wife had to compete against.

"I'm going to take a shower," I told her. I seriously needed to wrap my head around this new development.

The soothing waters of a hot shower felt good. Brette insisted that we install a pulsating shower head, and I'm finally getting to see the benefit upon my shoulders. The relaxing nature of the shower gave me some time to think.

The thought of fucking my ex-wife was a pleasing one. She looked better than I remembered her. Her breasts may have been augmented, lifted, or whatever the right term would be, but I still wanted to climb them. After all, the asshole put the horns on me. Turnabout would only be fair play, right? As her husband, I tried to be a considerate lover. I tried to make sure that she got as much pleasure from sex as I did, if not more. I did not want to be one of those "minute men" guys. I wasn't going to be one and done with her. Now, I just want to fuck her. I want to use her body for my pleasure, like a cock sheath.

But I treated all those sluts that I've met in bars like cock sheaths. As Brette said, they were nothing more than trash the next day. I didn't care about them. Melanie was something more. We had a history together. Albeit, a history she decided to burn down in a blaze of glory. But still, we had a history. Not to mention, she was the mother of my daughters. Despite all that had happened between us, she was their mother and if I truly cared for Abby and Allie, then I would have to have a little bit of consideration for Melanie. Only a little, though. Like, if she was on fire, I might piss on her to put out the flames. Or I could make s'mores.

And then there's Brette. Up until a half hour ago, she was nothing more than my surrogate daughter. I loved her, but I loved her the same way that I love Abby and Allie. I took her in because I felt like she needed a fatherly hand, some proper guidance or something. Not that my guidance would be the best, but it was better than what she had at the time. Hell, I'm already a father. If this turned serious with Brette, would she want to have kids? I'd be in my sixties by the time they were out of the house. And I can barely support myself. Trying to support Brette and a little one would be next to impossible.

If I was being completely honest, though; I felt like I was making up a lot of lost time when I was with her. She made me feel ten to fifteen years younger, like someone who could be her husband and take care of her and support her and do all the things that I thought I was doing right for Melanie. Plus, Brette understood my mindset. She knew when I needed my guitar. She gets the way I behave. There's no fussing or arguing when I'm being a complete asshole. She accepts my flaws for what they are and that they are a part of me. These are things that would be very difficult to find in any woman, and I had that with her.

But to say I regretted fucking her? Not a chance. My God, she was like a wild cat. I figured I would need to stock up on Campbell's soup and Gatorade. I would probably have to start running three miles a day to keep up with the cardio needed to satisfy her. But living a healthy lifestyle is good for people, right? The motivation behind healthy living doesn't matter, as long as we're physically fit afterwards, right? Ok, I would probably need to stock up on blue pills. I'm not as young as I once was.

Just the thought of the sex we had caused my cock to stir. And maybe that soapy hand that was washing its shaft also had something to do with it. Brette climbed into the shower with me. There was no lust now. There was caring and compassion. She leaned against me, pressing her breasts against my back as she reached around and stroked my cock. She wasn't trying to jerk me off. It felt as though she was simply getting to know that part of me. That probably sounded strange.

I turned around so that I could face her. I wrapped my arms around her waist and I stared down into those blue eyes. She was staring back up at me. She had the body of a woman that could devour the souls of men, but the innocence in her eyes made me see the child. Did I want to take advantage of her? I wanted to say something, but she put a finger to my lips before I could utter a syllable.

"Don't speak. I know what you're going to say. I know you, Stony. Let's just savor this moment, ok? It was beautiful." She paused, and then tilted her head to one side and added as an aside, "And it felt good rubbing your ex-wife's nose in it. She deserved that." She then smiles, "Plus, you're mine, Stony Brooks. No one else knows you like I do."

I decided to silence her with a loving kiss. I wasn't trying to find out if she still had her tonsils or anything like that. Still, it was a loving kiss and a tender embrace. What a way to round out my crazy morning.

I wish I could say that the rest of the day was just as eventful, but we've discussed wishes earlier. I tried calling my daughter's cell phone number and simply got her voice mail message. I would be lying if I said I disconnected the call upon hearing her voice mail message. I had not heard my baby girl's voice in ten years. Listening to the woman-child that she had become touched my heart. Her playful banter on the phone about calling at a bad time made me smile on the inside. Though, for as many times as I listened to her tell me to leave a message, I never left one. I wasn't sure how she would react. Melanie noticed that I'm different. Do I sound different? Would I scare my baby girl away? I'm not ready to face that possibility, but yes, I know it's there.

–––-

The dank stone cell basked in an unseen pale fluorescent light. The concrete blocks were highlighted by the grout, causing the black and red writing on the wall to stand out. Black tally marks littered the walls in a chaotic pattern. This random graffiti was trumped by the word "HA!" written in a blood red scrawl, scattered in just as random of a pattern as the tally marks. The cot was utilitarian in nature, and the drab wool blanket provided minimal warmth and barely any comfort. The linens didn't even register a thread count.

Despite all the doom and gloom of the cell, underneath the wool blanket was a twenty something woman. Her golden blonde hair was faded to a more champagne color. She wore her hair in pig tails, with one pig tail dipped in red and the other in black. Her sun-kissed complexion had become ghostly pale, perhaps due to a prolonged absence of seeing the sun. The wool blanket clung to her body like a strapless dress, exposing her shoulders and a hint of cleavage.

In a voice that sounded like she was from New York, rather than the South, she said, "I got an itch that I thought you could help me scratch, Puddin'!"

Unable to refuse such an invitation, I climbed onto the cot with no regard to my locale. Once I had straddled her body, the prison cell melted away. The only thing in my vision was her. I could see the devotion in her eyes, despite any way that I may have verbally abused her or treated her poorly. She picked herself up off the bed, so that her lips would reach mine. I made no effort to close the distance. That did not mean I did not enjoy the kiss. I felt my will weakening as I melted into her embrace.

It was with a sudden movement that I found myself on the floor and on my back. The twenty-something girl with red and black pig tails demonstrated surprising strength. She had me pinned to the floor. She used the wool blanket to trap my arms. There was a crazed look to her now. The reversal in position was completed with her yelling, "Yahtzee!"

Again, the room around me dissolved away from what should have been a prison cell to what could best be described as a green house. The piercing fluorescent light morphed into a dull red light. The humidity in the room sky rocketed. Odd plants surrounded me and the girl. Some of the plants looked like Venus flytraps, man-eating trees, or other exotic carnivorous plants. Others had blossoms that reeked of a sweet fragrance and had vines that served more like tendrils. Pollen hung in the air like dust being scattered in rays of sun light.

One of those tendril-like vines slowly slithered its way towards the girl. There was no protest, no contention or fight as the vine wrapped itself around her frame, mummifying her. In a very erotic sense, the vine clung to every feminine curve. Soon all of her facial features and physical characteristics that made her unique was gone, only her vine-covered feminine form was visible. The body seemed complacent in the plant-like cocoon.

From the shadows of the green house, a more sophisticated and elegant woman emerges. While she may be in her late thirties to early forties, she carried herself with authority, confidence, and a sultry sway that would make Marilyn Monroe jealous. It was hard to tell in this red light whether she had luxurious brown locks or red. The strapless green gown looked more like a whore's garment from the Wild, Wild West era. The can-can cut of the dress revealed her gorgeous legs, while the bodice pushed and supported her generous bosom. The heels of her boots clicked upon the floor, drawing attention to her presence.

She spoke in a condescending manner, "You've only scratched the bark. You'll never reach the roots. Nature is like a hydra, Mister B; you chop off one branch and ten grow to take its place! You may cut down a tree, but you'll never find your way out of the forest!"

She looked around while lifting up her arms. "Rise my beauties! Our enemy still stands!"

The plant-like cocoon had multiplied without me noticing. Instead of one, there were three. They started to tear apart as if the moths inside were breaking free of their pupa. One by one, three young women emerged from the plants. The youngest appeared to be in her mid-teens. Another appeared to be on the verge of becoming a woman, caught in between adolescence and adulthood. The third was the beautiful woman that was in my cot just moments before. But now, they all looked like younger versions of the woman in green. Their eyes were glazed over, holding a green sheen. Their movements were slightly robotic as if they were under her spell.

And for a moment, I thought I could see in the distance, the "Bat" man's silhouette.

–––-

I woke, pushing that dream world wool blanket off of me. The imaginary wool blanket did not translate to a wool blanket in the real world. Brette had decided that my bed was now our bed, and she was draped over me in a possessive and loving fashion. So unfortunately, my desperate shove to get out from underneath that suffocating wool blanket and those pseudo-clones of Poison Ivy caused Brette to be unceremoniously hurled off the bed.

Brette was on her feet in seconds, fists clenched and a look suggesting she was loaded for bear. She shouted with that southern girl temper, "What the hell..." Though, her mood softened when she noticed my bewildered state, still experiencing the trauma of the nightmare and coming to terms that I'm back in the real world.

My face was in my hands, so I'm not sure how I looked to her. I'm certain the fact that I almost literally threw her out of bed caused some reservation in her. I don't blame her, either. My subconscious mind was working overtime. I wasn't certain if someone touching me would have been a good idea. The paranoia I had revolving around the idea that any of the women had ulterior motives frightened me. I needed to get away. The plucking of strings was not going to do it. I had to get away. Not just from the influence of one of those women, but I had to get away from myself.

In a matter of moments, I threw on some jeans, a ratty old Eagles concert t-shirt, my boots, and my riding jacket. I may not have had seven women on my mind, but I was close with four. One that wants to own me, one that wants to haunt me, and two that I want to see again. Ok, they don't make good song lyrics, but I never proclaimed to be a songwriter. With the keys in hand, I flew open the apartment door.

"Where you going, Stony?" This wasn't an accusatory or an argumentative tone from Brette. It was laced with concern and worry.

"My Church," was my only response. I didn't even look back as the door closed behind me.

One of the nice things about Nashville is that during the ungodly hours in the morning, the interstates are relatively free of traffic. There's still life to be found on I-40 and I-65, but not enough where one has to keep their mind devoted to the idiot driver in front of them. Even more so, during the week. On the weekends, that might be a different story as drivers attempt the drive home while praying they don't get caught with a breathalyzer. At night, a guy on his motorcycle basically had the road to himself.

Can I get a hallelujah? Can I get an amen? The open road can be good for the soul. It's just you and your bike. You tell the bike to turn left, the bike turns left. The only thing that dictates your path is the curvature of the road. There's no ulterior motives. There's no relationship complications. There's no fear of the unknown. Just you and wherever the road leads you. If you know the road well enough, you can allow your mind to drift and think. You can reflect on where you are and where you want to get to, both figuratively and literally.

The time I spent in "Club Med" Memphis, also known as the Federal Correctional Institute, I learned rather quickly to get involved in the weight lighting courts. I was a scrawny computer nerd that was fresh meat. While I was incarcerated for aggravated assault, I certainly was not all that intimidating to look at. More importantly, that urban legend about finding the toughest dude in prison and starting a fight with him to gain respect is nothing more than that. Sure, there was still a feeling out process, but by finding the right "court", I could get the "gang" of weight lifters to have my back. I paid my dues, as it was, but eventually worked myself into the chiseled mess that I am now.

Some of the prisoners there preached the science of muscle memory. It's the act of doing something repeatedly until the muscle cells are programmed to perform the task effortlessly. In prison, I felt fascinated by it. I even researched it, using the prison library. Interestingly enough, it's a verified proven phenomenon. I do not know how it translates to other tasks, but I soon found myself outside of Nashville and traveling the back roads of Mount Juliet. My muscles were taking me to where everything started. I was going to what was once my home before the asshole interfered.

When I met Melanie, she had this scrapbook that she started as a child. She had cut out pictures from magazines, printed up things from the Internet, or grab screen shots from movies of different rooms, different style of houses, or different pieces of furniture that would eventually be found in her 'dream home'. If Barbie could have a dream home, then she decided that she would, too. We must have spent months trying to find the right house with enough of the characteristics that she wanted: a big yard with a wraparound front porch, and that cute porch swing overlooking the yard and so that we could gaze upon the sunset every night.

But as I can attest, dreams turn into nightmares some times. To start small, sitting on that porch swing during sunset blinded us most of the time, so it required putting up some blinds. The big yard was a severe chore to mow, so it meant purchasing a riding mower. If you went cheap, the damned thing would break down and would require parts and repair. You could go the expensive route, if you could afford it which we couldn't due to all of the 'home repairs'. The house was big, but was not properly insulated, so heating bills during the winter were astronomical. The same could be said for the summer months as well. A new roof, new windows, a refinished kitchen with butcher block counter tops, and countless other 'fixes' made it the perfect home for her, or so I thought. It did make the perfect money pit.

But I guess that the dream changed for her. The house was no longer good enough for her. After the divorce, I heard through the grapevine that she sold the house and moved to Skokie with the asshole. The last remaining part of me, other than my girls, was sold without a care or a thought of our past. All of my hard work to afford the home was for naught. She found someone and something better. Well, from what I could tell from our last meeting, she's realizing that the greener yard has more fertilizer.

The morning sun had not made itself known, though the sky was turning lighter as I pulled down the country road that lead to the house. A car passed me, probably on their way into work, as the old house came into view. Memories came flooding back. Picnics that we had with the girls, birthday parties and camp fires all flashed before my eyes. They were vague memories at best, though. I had spent too much time on the computer, writing the next program or coding the next fix for the software. Some dreams came with a price. Now, looking back, not a single hour wasted on those programs was worth it. The house is gone. My career is gone. Melanie, Abby and Allie are gone.

I don't know how long I had been parked on the far side of the street, just staring at the house, before I heard a stir. A quick glance towards the garage, a big dog had been let loose. Sounds of garbage cans being wheeled out of their resting place soon followed. Sure enough, the diligent hard working man of the house came out, navigating two large garbage cans down the gravel driveway. The man was probably in his fifties, still working a blue collared job like at the Nissan plant or a feed mill. It was evident that he was a good provider for his family. The dog stayed close to his side, a loyal friend to the end.

He spoke first, "Can I help you, son?" It sounded like a good natured question, but there was an underlying tone suggesting that I should just move along.

"Sir, I know you don't know me from Adam, but..."

I must have said something funny because he sure got a chuckle out of that. I paused to scrutinize him and find meaning behind this laugh. My confusion to what he was laughing about didn't register with him. The old coot must be going senile in his old age. Though, I'm sure I'm on the same path as he is.

"With all due respect, sir, I don't mean any harm." The look he gave me suggested that there was some doubt. I'm sure the prison tattoos didn't sell my intentions. I gestured up to the house, "About ten years ago, I used to live here, but things went to Hell in a hand basket. Now, I'm just trying to make sense of everything. I will be gone before you know it. I won't take nothing but a memory."

He looked me over. I steeled my jaw as I felt his judgmental scrutiny considered. However, despite his gaze, his tone was touched with compassion, "How long were you in for, son?"

It took me a moment to even contemplate answering. A part of me wanted to hop on my bike and ride. Who did this guy think he was? Still, I was raised to be respectful and mindful of our elders. In a short, curt manner, I responded, "Five years."

"Why don't you go check in with your parole officer?"

It sounded more like a statement, rather than a question. It had a dismissive tone, too. It was clear he was ending the conversation as well as my time reminiscing about the past. I gave him a hard look, but then decided to respect the old man's wishes. This was his home now. I'm just a visitor.