Under the Dome

Jesus, don’t let him ask about the groceries. Please, Jesus.

And then another thought struck her: Where were the kids’ suitcases? Each of the girls had packed a little traveling case. What if they were sitting in the living room?

“Tell him you’re fine,” Carter said. “We don’t want to bring the hippie into this. Or the kids. Do we?”

God, no. But where were their suitcases?

“Fine!” she called.

“Almost finished?” he called.

Oh, Thurse, shut up!

“I need five minutes!”

Thurston stood there looking like he might say something else, but then went back to pushing the girls.

“Good job.” He was pressing against her now, and he had a hardon. She could feel it against the seat of her jeans. It felt as big as a monkey wrench. Then he pulled away. “Almost finished with what?”

She almost said making breakfast, but the used bowls were in the sink. For a moment her mind was a roaring blank and she almost wished he’d put his damn boner on her again, because when men were occupied with their little heads, their big ones switched to a test pattern.

But he jerked her arm up again. “Talk to me, Mom. Make Dad happy.”

“Cookies!” she gasped. “I said I’d make cookies. The kids asked!”

“Cookies with no power,” he mused. “Best trick of the week.”

“They’re the no-bake kind! Look in the pantry, you son of a bitch!” If he looked, he would indeed find no-bake oatmeal cookie mix on the shelf. But of course if he looked down, he would also see the supplies she had packed. And he might well do that, if he registered how many of the pantry shelves were now half or wholly empty.

“You don’t know where he is.” The erection was back against her. With the throbbing pain in her shoulder, she hardly registered it. “You’re sure about that.”

“Yes. I thought you knew. I thought you came to tell me he was hurt or d-d—”

“I think you’re lying your pretty round ass off.” Her arm jerked up higher, and now the pain was excruciating, the need to cry out unbearable. But somehow she did bear it. “I think you know plenty, Mom. And if you don’t tell me, I’m going to rip your arm right out of its socket. Last chance. Where is he?”

Linda resigned herself to having her arm or shoulder broken. Maybe both. The question was whether or not she could keep from screaming, which would bring the Js and Thurston on the run. Head down, hair dangling in the sink, she said: “Up my ass. Why don’t you kiss it, motherfucker? Maybe he’ll pop out and say hi.”

Instead of breaking her arm, Carter laughed. That was a good one, actually. And he believed her. She would never dare to talk to him like that unless she was telling the truth. He only wished she wasn’t wearing Levi’s. Fucking her probably still would have been out of the question, but he certainly could have gotten a good deal closer to it if she’d been in a skirt. Still, a dry hump wasn’t the worst way to start Visitors Day, even if it was against a pair of jeans instead of some nice soft panties.

“Hold still and keep your mouth shut,” he said. “If you can do that, you may get out of this in one piece.”

She heard the jingle of his belt-buckle and the rasp of his zipper. Then what had been rubbing against her was rubbing again, only now with a lot less cloth between them. Some faint part of her was glad that at least she’d put on a fairly new pair of jeans; she could hope he’d give himself a nasty rug rash.

Just as long as the Js don’t come in and see me like this.

Suddenly he pressed tighter and harder. The hand not holding her arm groped her breast. “Hey, Mom,” he murmured. “Hey-hey, my-my.” She felt him spasm, although not the wetness that followed such spasms as day follows night; the jeans were too thick for that, thank God. A moment later the upward pressure on her arm finally loosened. She could have cried with relief but didn’t. Wouldn’t. She turned around. He was buckling his belt again.

“Might want to change those jeans before you go making any cookies. At least, I would if I were you.” He shrugged. “But who knows—maybe you like it. Different strokes for different folks.”

“Is this how you keep the law around here now? Is this how your boss wants the law kept?”

“He’s more of a big-picture man.” Carter turned to the pantry, and her racing heart seemed to stop. Then he glanced at his watch and yanked up his zipper. “You call Mr. Rennie or me if your husband gets in touch. It’s the best thing to do, believe me. If you don’t, and I find out, the next load I shoot is going straight up the old wazoo. Whether the kids are watching or not. I don’t mind an audience.”

“Get out of here before they come in.”

“Say please, Mom.”

Her throat worked, but she knew Thurston would soon be checking on her, and she got it out. “Please.”

He headed for the door, then looked into the living room and stopped. He had seen the little suitcases. She was sure of it.

But something else was on his mind.