Chapter 479 - Mom's Taboo Wish part 1 by Glaze72

Chapter 1: Picking Up the Pieces

It all started with a phone call on a sunny May afternoon.

"Hey, Mom," Brendan said, as he picked up his cell, and muted the television with the remote in his other hand.

"Hi, honey." His mother's voice sounded weak and strained. "Can you do me a favor? I need you to come pick me up."

"Sure." He frowned. It was in the middle of the afternoon. Why did his mom need a ride? "Where are you?"

A short, tired laugh. "The hospital."

"What?" He sat up straight, the ballgame forgotten. "What happened? What's going on?"

"I'll explain it all when you get here, all right? I don't feel like having this conversation over the phone."

"All right." He stood and plucked his car keys from the hook near the front door. "I'm on my way."

The trip to the hospital was thankfully short. Mayfield was not a large town, even by the standards of western Kentucky. Barely twenty minutes after he left the house, Brendan pushed through the front doors of the large, modern, glass and steel building which had replaced the old brick-built hospital. After a couple of wrong turns which left him seething, a helpful nurse pointed out the way to his mother's room.

"All right," he said, staring down at her from the doorway. Fortunately, she did not seem to be badly hurt. "What happened?"

Miranda Dallben rolled her eyes at his peremptory tone. "Just because you're taller than me, Brendan, doesn't mean that you can talk to me the same way your grandfather used to."

"Right." He crossed his arms and leaned against one wall of the small room. Luckily, the other bed was unoccupied, so there was no one else to listen in on their conversation. "Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

"Rusty picked me up for lunch."

Alarm bells began to ring in the back of his head. "And?" he asked, when she paused.

His mother adjusted her right arm in its sling. That seemed to be all the damage, though she was moving without her usual vivacious energy.

"And he decided to read a text message in the car and he ran a red light on Cumberland and we nearly got t-boned by a soccer mom in an SUV and I do not need you to read me the riot act right now, Brendan James Dallben," she said, voice clipped with impatience. "I've already heard it from the police officer, the nurses, and the doctor. Everyone seems to be really happy to tell me what an idiot I was for going out with Rusty in the first place."

Brendan took a deep breath, held it, and slowly let it out again. "Well," he grimaced, though he was aching to throw out an 'I told you so.' "I guess there's no point in repeating it then, is there?"

His mother's shoulders slumped in relief. "No."

"So where is the enormous prick, anyway?"

Her voice went small. "Jail."

"What?"

"He panicked, Brendan. After that woman hit us, I guess he thought he could make a run for it before anyone recognized him. So he tore through town until we got to his place, pieces of the car falling off the whole way like the world's worst set of breadcrumbs, even though I was yelling at him to stop and turn around." She snorted bitterly. "The police got there about five minutes after we did. It's not like that car of his is inconspicuous or anything."

"Gotta love small towns," he smiled. And the fact that a moron like Rusty Barwick probably drives the only Pontiac Fiero in Graves County. God help me if I ever turn into a sad sack like him. Trying to recapture the glory days when he was seventeen when he's almost three times that age.

"Yeah. So they picked him up for a hit and run, and dropped me off here on the way to taking him to the county slammer." She shifted on the narrow hospital bed, wincing with pain. Even accounting for the unflattering florescent light, her face looked wan and pale. "God knows what they'll end up charging him with."

"Are you okay?"

"Not really," she sighed. "I'm bruised all over and my arm hurts like hell." She mustered a feeble smile. "And my hair is a disaster." She ran a hand through the honey-blond strands and sighed.

"Well, here." He offered her a hand. "Let's check out and get you out of this dump."

"Whose hospital are you calling a dump, young man?" A short, dark-skinned nurse bustled into the room. Her eyes flashed with a mixture of aggravation and good humor. "And people don't check out of hospitals. They're released. If they can prove they're fit to leave. This isn't a hotel, you know."

He laughed out loud and gave the African-American woman a hug. "Hi, Mrs. Jackson."

Mabel Jackson gave him a quick embrace in return, then stepped back and set her hands on her wide hips, looking him up and down with a stern eye. "Humph. Well, at least the boy has some manners. When it took him so long to come here and make sure his momma was all right, I started to wonder."

"I came here as quick as I could," he protested.

"He really did, Mabel," Miranda said.

The older woman snorted. "I guess you raised your boy right, Miranda, for all your wild ways. So how is school, Brendan? You doing all right up there?"

"Good enough," he shrugged.

"And your grades?" Her dark eyes were sharp as tacks. "Your momma told me you're studying business. I hope you don't turn into one of those Wall Street boys, not caring for anything but how much money you have."

"Accounting," he corrected. "And no."

"Good." She pulled a slim tablet out of the pocket of her scrubs and started tapping on it with her fingers. "So how are you feeling, Miranda? Do you have a headache? Blurry vision? Anything like that?"

"No. I'm fine. I told you already."

"Let me be the judge of that." She held up a hand. "How many fingers do you see?"

His mother's lips twitched. "All of them."

"Smart ass. Try again."

"Three."

"Better," Mabel sighed. "All right, girl. You don't have a concussion, though a woman as smart and pretty as you shouldn't be spending time with that sack of garbage you been hanging around with. So maybe you are soft in the head, after all.

"You can go. Keep the sling on for a week. You got a sprained shoulder and you're going to be all over bruises on that side, so take it easy. No heavy lifting, no strenuous exercise, no sex."

"What?" His mother froze, halfway off the bed, and Brendan's face turned bright red.

The nurse tilted her head back and laughed, her chortle filling the small room. "Got you! No," she added, "you can have as much sex as you like, as long as you find yourself a decent man for a change."

"You're awful." His mother tried to frown sternly at Mabel, but a smile kept on breaking out over her face, like a small child who didn't know the rules to hide-and-seek peeking around the corner. She rose from the bed, her smile turning into a grimace of pain. "Shit! That hurts!"

"Here, Mom." Brendan hurried forward, offering her his arm.

"Thanks, honey." She grabbed his shoulder and slowly pulled herself upright, hissing as bruised muscles made their unhappiness known. "Crap. I feel like I got rolled down a hill inside a barrel full of rocks."

Nurse Mabel held up a warning finger. "Aspirin only tonight, Miranda. Your body took one hell of a whack, but you don't need to get messed up on painkillers. And praise God that Betty Ogilvie's car wasn't a little bit faster."

"Hmmm. It would have been a lot more helpful if God had made sure that Rusty didn't try to read a text message at forty miles an hour."

"Maybe it was just His way of telling you that it was time to look for someone better." Her smile was white in her dark face. "And Brendan?"

"Yes, Mrs. Jackson?"

"You help your momma out for the next few days, you hear me? She won't be able to do much for herself, so you're going to need to be her arms and legs."

"I'm not crippled, Mabel."

"Yeah?" She raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Tell me that tomorrow morning. You're going to be hurting." She waved a hand. "Go on, get out of here, so I can help someone who is really sick."

*****

The ride home was quiet. His mother leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. Brendan drove slowly through town, not wanting to jar her bruised body if he hit a pothole.

"I called work," she said at last, her voice tired. "And I told them what happened. They can get by without me for a half-day, I think. And tomorrow, too, probably."

He nodded. His mother was an assistant manager at a plant nursery on the outskirts of town, having worked her way up from cashier over the past nine years. "I doubt the place will fall to pieces over the weekend."

"You never know," she said darkly. Her brows pinched in a frown. "Are you sure you want to work for us over the summer? Some boys wouldn't like to be taking orders from their mothers."

"I don't know," he said slowly. "It's pretty confusing. I mean, that would be a really enormous change in my life, wouldn't it? It's not like you've been telling me what to do since...I don't know...since I was born. Have you? Oh, wait." His face sank into an expression of vacuous stupidity. "Actually, you have!

"So don't worry about it," he said, turning onto their street. "I'd rather work out at your place than be one of the zombies out at the Wal-Mart, or flipping burgers in some cruddy fast-food place all summer. At least I'll be out in the fresh air. I can work on my tan and get a hot body so I can impress all the ladies when I go back to school in August," he smiled.

Miranda laughed softly. "You keep thinking, Brendan. That's what you're best at." Her arm made an abortive move towards the door-handle as he parked his car neatly in the driveway. "Shit. Ouch."

"Stop it," he said, getting out of the car and hurrying over to her side. He opened the door for you. "Nurse Mabel would have my hide if I let you hurt yourself again. Here." He gave her an arm out of the car. "Come on, Mom. Let me help you. You don't have to do everything yourself, you know."

"Yeah, yeah. I know," she sighed. Her shoulders slumped wearily as she stood in the gravel driveway.

"Listen," he said. "I'm going to need to go and get your car from the nursery. Go inside, sit down, relax, and take it easy, all right? When I get back here I'll make us some supper, and you won't have to do anything."

"You?" Her lips curled up. "Cook?"

He cocked his head, hearing the challenge. "Yeah. Me."

Chapter 2: Cut From A Different Bolt

Brendan left a few minutes later, waving goodbye to her as he set off on his ten-speed. Miranda hoped that he would be able to fit the bike into the trunk of her Camry. Or maybe he could lock it up at the nursery and they could have someone drop it off in the morning.

She sank into the couch, one hand massaging her aching head. Her right shoulder was a throbbing blot of pain, like a bad toothache, and even thinking about moving that arm made her jaw clench. How had such a promising day turned to crap so quickly?

The same way your life did, Miranda. Bad choices.

It was the same old story, told by thousands of small-town girls in thousands of small towns all across the country. She had been seventeen years old, young, pretty, and foolish, a cheerleader and not a bad student either, really, and that was no more than the truth, despite all the "dumb-blonde" jokes people told. Eager to explore her budding young body, she had given in to the pleas of her then-boyfriend, who had sworn up and down that a girl couldn't get pregnant her first time.

And who knows. Maybe Jimmy was right, she smiled bitterly. After that first time, in his upstairs bedroom while his parents were at bible class, they had screwed in every possible place their fertile imaginations could think of for the next two months. As long as it had a horizontal surface and a door that locked, it was fair game. And sometimes the horizontal surface was optional, she recalled, her lips curling up in tender memory, recalling a particularly energetic tryst up against the wall in a closet in the art room at the high school. They were young, good-looking, and horny as hell for each other, and in a town like Mayfield, well, there really wasn't a lot else to do besides screwing each other's brains out.

But all of their fun had come to a screeching halt when she missed her period one cold, rainy week in March. Panicked, she had gone to her mother. But if she expected sympathy and a way out of her predicament, she had gone to the wrong store and had forgotten her wallet, too. Muriel Dallben came from the old school. And if she didn't like the idea of her daughter bearing a child out of wedlock, she liked the idea of Miranda putting her eternal soul in peril by having an abortion a whole lot less. By the following winter, Miranda was the only girl on the cheerleading squad with a baby boy at home. Jimmy, for his part, had enlisted in the army as soon as the ink was dry on his high-school diploma, never to return to Mayfield. When his hitch was up, he moved to Nebraska and took a job with a heating and air-conditioning company. The child-support checks came through like clockwork, but he had shown absolutely no interest in building a relationship with his son.

Miranda, for her part, had somehow managed to claw her way through her last year of high school while caring for a newborn. College now being out of the question, she had moved out of her parents' house as soon as it was practical, quietly determined that she would never again let someone else's rules control her life. A series of low-paying, high-stress jobs had followed - waitress, cashier, receptionist - even, for three humiliating months, a maid in a cut-rate hotel on the edge of town. Luckily, several years ago, she had allowed her passion for gardening to tempt her into an entry-level position at the nursery. It had turned out to be the best decision of her life. Finally working for people who let her take advantage of her skills, she had reached a point where she and Brendan were...secure. Not rich. Not even comfortable, as southerners liked to say. But five years ago, after over a decade of living in crappy apartments or rented houses, she had been able to afford to buy a real home of their own.

If only you were as good with men as you are with plants, Miranda.

She balled up her one good fist. But the dreary train of her thoughts was broken by the crunch of tires in the driveway. A few minutes later Brendan appeared, lugging a pair of grocery sacks.

"That was quick," she said, pushing herself to her feet, one hand braced on the arm of the couch.

"Pat Longstreet was still there. He says he's going to be out in the truck early tomorrow, delivering some saplings. He'll drop my bike off here on his way out to Hickory Hills."

"Good." She frowned as her son emptied the grocery bags. "So should I be angry that you bought alcohol when you're only nineteen? Or should I be impressed at your ingenuity?"

He smiled at her, setting a package of chicken on the counter. "Remember Adam Johnston? He was a couple years ahead of me in school. He's working at that liquor store on Taylor Street. I ran into him a few days ago, and he told me that if I ever needed it, he could hook me up."

"I don't like the idea of you drinking at your age, Brendan."

"Mom," he sighed. "It's just a six-pack. And seeing as how I'm a complete lightweight, it'll probably take me all weekend to drink it. Besides, that was just camouflage." He pulled out a bottle of rum and a twelve-pack of Coca-Cola. "This is for you. After a day like today, I think you deserve it." He plucked a large glass out of the dishtray. "Rum and coke, little lady?" he drawled, for all the world as if he were a bartender at an old-timey saloon.

She smiled. She couldn't help it. "Sure. Why the hell not? Heavy on the ice, though, all right? Or I'll pass right out before dinner."

Brendan filled the tumbler with ice, then poured a can of coke into it. "Say when," he said, opening the bottle of rum.

"When," she said, after a generous splash. She closed her eyes and took a sip. Cold, sweet, with a strong hint of the rum underneath. Just the way she liked it. "Nice. Maybe if this college thing doesn't work out for you, you can be a bartender instead."

Brendan made a face. "God, I hope not."

She nodded at the sacks. "So how much do I owe you for all this?"

"Sorry, Mom. I think I'm going deaf in this ear." He stuck a finger inside and wiggled it around. "Nope. Sorry. Can't hear a thing."

"Come on, Brendan. I know good rum isn't cheap."

"Neither is sending me to college."

Despite her misgivings, Brendan was able to put together a dinner that was more than satisfactory, though by the time it was ready, Miranda was taking very, very small sips of her drink. She had never been a heavy drinker, and she didn't want to pass out in front of her son. But one benefit of a light buzz was that the pain of her bruises faded into the background, and the gnawing self-disgust that she felt over the end of yet another failed relationship was almost forgotten.

They ate out on the tiny concrete deck, moths bumping drunkenly against the outside light as the last of the late-May twilight faded from the sky. Barbequed chicken, ready-made potato salad from the store, baked beans, and garlic bread. At least it was easy to eat, requiring only one operational arm. Trying to maneuver food to her mouth with her left hand made her feel like she was three years old again and couldn't be trusted with anything sharp. Brendan had a tiny frown on his face as he watched her, and she wondered how far he was from offering to help. She gave him a stern look, and smiled, satisfied, as he settled back into his patio chair.

"The yard looks good," he said, obviously not wanting to raise her ire.

"What there is of it," she sighed. "I wish we had a bigger one." Mayfield wasn't an expensive place to live. But she did wish she had been able to afford a house with a bigger yard. Their first summer here, she had ruthlessly gotten rid of some of the more cockeyed ideas which the previous owners had bequeathed to them. A pair of prickly bilberry bushes near the front door had been removed, replaced by a trio of cute little azaleas. Brendan had been dragooned into digging a strip along the side of the house, where they had planted roses. And day lilies, hardy flowers that could survive almost anything, bordered the concrete patio on two sides. She had even added hanging planters along the back fence, where she grew herbs for the kitchen.

"Oh," she said. "I just remembered. I have a hair appointment tomorrow. Would you mind driving me?"

"Well," he said. "That would really interfere with my plans." He smiled crookedly. "I mean, dinner with the king. How often does an opportunity like that turn up?"

"You're a goof," she laughed. "So, can you drive me?"

"I suppose," he muttered morosely. "But you are putting one hell of a crimp in my social life, Mom."

"Yeah." Loosened by rum, her tongue blathered on, despite her tardy attempt to rein it in. "The girls have been beating down the door, ever since you got home from college." A pang hit her heart as his face shuttered. "Oh, shit. I'm sorry, honey. I didn't mean to act like..."

"Act like your son went through his freshman year and didn't even sniff a girlfriend?" Brendan put an empty beer bottle on the table with slightly more force than was really necessary. "Don't worry about it. It's nothing but the truth."

She leaned back in her chair. "Trust me, honey. There's worse things."

"Like having a son at seventeen?"

Fuck. How can I stick my foot in my mouth two times in one conversation? "No. No, Brendan. Not you. Never you. I regret a lot of the choices I've made in my life. But you're not one of them." 

"From everything I've heard, I wasn't really a choice."

"Please," she flipped a hand at him tipsily. "If I had really wanted, I could have gotten rid of you.

"I didn't."

The next morning brought warm sun and blue skies and an absolute inability for Miranda to dress the way she wanted. Showering had been bad enough, with her right arm hanging limply at her side. But one hand was not exactly conducive to pulling up a pair of jeans.

She briefly thought about calling Brendan in, but decided against it. Her son would probably die of embarrassment right on the spot if she asked him to help her dress. Frustrated, she kicked the pair of hip-hugging jeans into a corner of her bedroom and somehow managed to throw a bright yellow sundress over her head with her one functional arm, and then stepped into a pair of panties. Their progression up her legs was like a drunken zigzag, but at least they covered her privates decently, unlike her chest. Taking her bra off the previous evening had been sheer torture. She wasn't even going to try to put one on again. And if what Janet had told her about her new hairdresser was right, she really didn't have to worry much about how she looked.

"Hi, Mom," Brendan said as she walked into the kitchen. A peanut-butter sandwich on toast, his normal breakfast since he was in his teens, was in one hand. The other held a large glass of orange juice.

She looked at the combination and shuddered, and instead picked an apple out of the bowl on the counter. "Here." Brendan got a chocolate muffin out of a package from the fridge. "Some one-handed eating for you."

She fell on the treat gratefully, her eyes rolling up in bliss as she bit into sweet, moist goodness. "I think I'll keep you around, kiddo." Her eye fell to the clock on the wall, and she yelped through a full mouth. "Crap! Is it that late?"

"Why?" Brendan asked. "It's like five minutes from her to Jessie's place."

"We're not going to Jessie's place. I heard about a new salon that's just opened up."

Brendan took a bite of his sandwich and chewed. "Okay. Where is it then?"

"Paducah," he muttered blackly, ten minutes later, as they passed through the outskirts of Mayfield. "Why are we driving to Paducah?"

"Oh, don't be such a baby." She settled into her seat and managed to press the button to roll down the window. Sweet-scented air flowed into the car. "It's barely thirty miles, not the moon. We'll be back in plenty of time for whatever you had planned for the day."

"I had nothing planned for the day, Mom. But now I have way less time to do it in." Belying his words, he smiled and cocked an elbow out of his window as the low, gentle hills of western Kentucky rolled by, his other hand on the steering wheel. "So what's so great about this place that we have to drive half an hour to get there?"

"Well," Miranda said, "I'm not really happy with my old salon. And Jessie is going to be retiring soon. So when I was talking to Karen at the farmer's market a couple of weeks ago, she told me about a new place that had opened up in Paducah that her friends up there were raving about. So I made an appointment.

"One thing, though..." she said hesitantly.

"What?"

"This guy. He's...kind of gay."

Brendan glanced at her, amused. "How can a guy be 'kind of' gay, Mom? Is that like being 'kind of' pregnant? Seems to me that either you're gay, or you aren't. Unless you're bisexual, that is," he added judiciously.

Her face heated, and she reminded herself, yet again, that her son had grown up in a very different world than she had, for all that there wasn't even twenty years of difference in their respective ages. "Actually, he's a lot gay."

"Oh. You mean, he's like, flaming gay?"

"Yeah. From what Karen told me, he's just an outrageous flirt, and says the craziest things. So if he does it to you, just...don't take it personally, all right?"

"Mom." He grinned at her. "You know we do have gay people at college, right? Don't worry. I'm not going to go all redneck on the guy." He leaned back in his seat, deepening his voice into a fruity baritone, like a movie announcer. "I am an enlightened male of the twenty-first century, and confident in my masculinity. I do not need to validate my own heterosexuality by falling prey to straight-white-male good-old-boy stereotypes."

She snickered. "Sure." The car crested the last hill, and the river valley lay in front of them. To the right, the Ohio ran in a broad blue stream, flowing west towards its meeting with the mighty Mississippi, less than fifty miles away. "I'll believe that when I see it."

The salon was called "The Good Genie" and was surprisingly small, tucked away unobtrusively on a side street, just off the main business district. A bell tinkled cheerfully overhead as Brendan opened the door, and Miranda followed. Cool air, scented with potpourri, wafted over them. There were only two chairs, neither of which was occupied, which seemed to Miranda to be underkill, even for a stylist who, according to Karen, only seemed to work as a sort of hobby.

"Hello?" she said hesitantly into the seemingly empty shop. "Is anyone here?"

"One second!" a muffled voice called. As she tried to figure out where it was coming from, a cleverly-concealed door at the rear of the salon swung open, and a youngish man walked out of what appeared to be a supply closet. He might be, Miranda thought, on the low side of thirty, but that was just a guess, since his features were ageless. His hair was coal-black, and slightly wavy, and his face was almost indecently attractive, with smoldering dark eyes, full, sensual lips, and a narrow blade of a nose. His skin was a dusky brownish-gold, making his Indian heritage obvious.

Oh, damn, she thought. It's a good thing that Karen warned me. Because I would love to make him my next mistake.

But even without her friend's words of advice, it was clear that Gene was gay. Flaming gay. More. Was there a word beyond 'flaming?' Maybe 'inferno?' Or 'volcano?' If so, Gene was volcano-gay. It wasn't just the clothes, though a t-shirt in an eye-watering shade of pink, tucked into a pair of skintight black leather pants, would have been warning enough. It was in his posture, the way he seemed to almost mince towards her across the room. His mere existence would be an affront to a man like Rusty, and if her parents were still alive, her mother would have had a coronary on the spot, while her father would be reaching for his shotgun so he could run him out of town.

"Hello," she said, biting back a smile. "I'm Miranda Dallben. I'm-"

"My ten-thirty appointment," the man finished. "I'm Gene. And I am absolutely de-lighted to meet you." He took her uninjured hand and kissed the back of her wrist, his eyes glinting merrily. "Oh, my," he sighed, scanning her from head to toe. "Aren't you the most scrumptious little thing." His eyes flicked to her left hand, and then to Brendan. "Not married, I see. Is this your lover?"

Yes. A very good thing that Karen had warned her. Somehow, she managed to keep a straight face, despite her temptation to burst into a spate of giggles at Brendan's thunderous expression. "No. Brendan's my son."

"Ah, the clouds part, letting in the sweet air of enlightenment." Gene simpered at Brendan. "And don't scowl at me like that, honeybuns. Your mother wouldn't be the first woman who walked in here with a younger man on her arm, trying to hold back time by banging someone half her age. Though in her case, I wouldn't blame her. You are absolutely delectable. My own boyfriend isn't much older than you. Though I think he is far more flexible...in his thinking. Among other things. A pity," he sighed. "So many men, and too few of them willing to explore the...sweeter...pleasures in life. But at least young men have the decency to be so incredibly enthusiastic when it comes to lovemaking." He gave Miranda a shallow bow, stilling the stream of vapid commentary. "And what are we doing for you today?"

She lifted her hand to her head. "I need my hair done."

"Nonsense," he declared firmly. "Fiddlesticks. Poppycock. Why would a perfectly lovely woman like you try to improve upon nature?"

"You flatter me," she smiled. And you can flatter me some more.

"Rubbish." He drew her unresisting hand into his arm and walked her towards the chairs. "Your hair is absolutely lovely, my dear. But if you wish, I will use whatever poor skill is mine in the pursuit of increasing your allure." In a trice, he had her seated in a chair, a sheet whipped around her, and had lowered the back of the chair so he could wash and shampoo her hair. "A little dry," he murmured disapprovingly, his hands massaging her scalp, as Brendan took up a slouching, disgruntled seat a few yards away, his eyes drawn down in suspicious slits. "Do you work outdoors?"

"Yes." She closed her eyes against the shampoo's sting. "At a plant nursery."

"Well, we can do something about that. And your hair bleaches in the summer, am I right? All that sun."

"Yes. By August it's the color of hay." She grimaced. "And feels the same way."

"Ah." His hands were really most amazingly skilled. Miranda could almost feel the knots of tension loosen in her neck, her back. "I have something that could help. No more split ends for you, my darling. Your hair will look ravishing, to match the rest of you."

In short order, her hair was washed and Gene had her upright again, drying her with professional skill. As he worked on her hair he kept up a pleasant, cheery chatter, and before she knew it, she was telling him about the accident the day before and the reason why Brendan had to drive her to the appointment.

"Well, you're well rid of that bozo, if you want my opinion," the stylist sniffed. "And you're lucky you have this young man to help you out. Think how much more difficult things would be if he wasn't around."

"That's the lord's truth," she sighed. "You know, just once in my life I wish I could find me a man who treats me as well as my own son. You wouldn't think that would be too much to ask."

"Mmmm," Gene murmured noncommittally. "Well, we're in the business of making wishes come true, here." He finger-combed her hair, frowning slightly, then began to carefully work with the scissors. "And how about you, sugar-lips?" he said, glancing at Brendan. "Do you have a cute little girl waiting for you? One who can't keep her hands of your manly physique and who melts into a puddle every time she hears your voice?"

If possible, her son's posture became even more resentfully hunched. "No."

"No?" Surprisingly, Gene's tone had lost its customary foolery. "Why not? I admit, I might be biased, sweetie, but even for a jaded old pervert like me, you are more than presentable. Miranda, what do you think?"

"I think he should sit up straight, for one thing," she said. "And that his love life is none of my business."

"Ah." She could actually hear the smile in his voice. "A mother who doesn't interfere. That's new. So how about it, Brendan? What kind of woman do you like?"

"Not the kind I've met up at college, that's for sure," Brendan grunted. "Half of them won't even talk to me, since I'm a hick from a small town. Can't have some sorority girl from Frankfort or Louisville or Lexington or Nashville be seen talking to a boy from a town where they barely have speed limits."

Gene made an encouraging noise.

"But if I did, it'd be a girl from a place like Mayfield," Brendan continued, drawn out of his sulk. "Someone who understands me. About how hard it is for a person from a place like that to haul themselves out of the muck and make a better life for themselves."

"Someone like your mother?"

Brendan snorted. "I should be so lucky." Miranda almost blushed as she saw the admiration in his eyes. "Mom didn't have her entire life handed to her on a silver platter, like some people I've met. She's had to work for everything she has. She gets it. She knows how the real world works. I wish I had a dollar for every dumb-ass I've talked to up there that thought the world owed him everything. I'd have, like," he counted off on his fingers. "Eight bucks."

Gene laughed out loud, and Miranda clapped a hand over her mouth, hiding her grin. "That much?"

"Oh, yeah," he grinned. "Maybe ten."

"Well, the world has a way of making sure that people who are right for each other find each other," the older man said. "Though sometimes it takes a few false starts before your dreams come true. But if I can give you some advice, just make sure that when opportunity knocks, you aren't busy spanking it in the bathroom."

Brendan snorted laughter, to Miranda's intense relief. You know, even if he's my own son, he's really cute when he smiles.

"There." Gene set his brush down with a firm click that signaled a job completed. "What do you think?"

Miranda looked in the mirror. Gene was a genius, she decided, her inner voice faint. Her hairstyle wasn't much different than it had been before. But at the same time, it was as if he had accentuated every positive aspect, to make her seem more attractive than she really was. Somehow, the eye was drawn to how the strands of her hair were every shade of blond, from platinum to gold to bronze. Every curl was more lustrous, bringing out the dark blue of her eyes, the pink in her lips, the blush of her cheeks.

"I think," she said faintly, "that however much I'm paying you, it isn't enough."

Gene laughed, removing the sheet with an elaborate bow, like a vizier before his queen. "I live to serve beauty, in whatever form it may take," he said. "And it is my pleasure to see your wishes granted. Perhaps some day soon you and your son may each find the one who will make your lives complete."

"Maybe," she replied with a smile as she walked to the counter, handing over a credit card to pay the bill. "But wishes aren't usually there for the granting. Or the taking."

"Usually doesn't mean always," the stylist replied, as Brendan got up to wait by the door. He smiled mysteriously. "Sometimes we find that what we want has been in front of us all along." Their fingers brushed as he handed back the card, and a receipt to sign. "We just need to open our eyes to see it.

"Now." He flipped open a leather-bound appointment book. "When would you like to schedule your next appointment?"

Miranda followed Brendan out of the salon, a smile on her face that felt as wide as the Ohio River. "My god, the man's a miracle-worker!" She fluffed her hair out over her shoulders. "Doesn't it look good?"

"You always look good, Mom. You know that."

She cocked her head at him, surprised by the unexpected compliment. "Why, thank you, honey. But there's a difference between knowing it and feeling it. Gene made me feel beautiful."

"A gay hairdresser?"

"His sexuality has nothing to do with it," she said primly. She poked a stiff finger at her son's chest, smiling as he backed away with a surprised grunt. "A woman needs to feel beautiful, Brendan. Even when she's not. Sometimes, especially when she's not. So let that be a lesson to you, when you start dating again. Tell her."

"Well." Brendan ducked his head, his cheeks coloring. "You're gorgeous, Mom. I just wish the guys you went out with appreciated you. Because as far as I can tell, most of them just take you for granted."

She smiled, warmed by his words. "Thank you, honey. And chivalrous, too," she teased as he opened her car door for her. She decided to award him by flashing just a little more leg from under her dress than was really necessary as she swung into the car. From the sudden widening of her son's eyes, it seemed he noticed.

The ride home was a cheerful one, as they laughingly discussed some of the more outrageous things Gene had said during the appointment. Miranda was happy to see that Brendan had apparently shaken off his earlier grumpy mood. When they got home, they had a light lunch. Afterward, Brendan excused himself to his room to, he said, talk to some of friends on the internet and, Miranda suspected, play video games on his computer. Since he had already given up a good chunk of his day for her, she kept her mouth shut on her opinion that video games would rot the brain right out of his head.

She read for a little while, but the warm day soon had her head nodding, so she lay down on the couch and had a nice little nap. But it was rudely interrupted an hour or so later, by a series of loud, obnoxious knocks. Blinking the dregs of a very sexy dream out of her foggy eyes, she walked over to the front door.

Where, upon opening it, she was met by the very last person she wanted to see.

"Miranda." Rusty Barwick's eyes fell to her chest, then back up, his lips curling in a greasy smile. "Thinking about me?"

She closed her eyes, praying for patience, while at the same wishing she had put on a bra. Trust Rusty to make something as happily erotic as a pair of erect nipples something to be ashamed of. "No," she said flatly.

His smile, if anything, widened. "Well, let me in, and maybe I can help you remember." A flash of annoyance crossed his features. "Seeing as how you didn't bother to check on me. I finally made bail this morning. No thanks to you."

"I spent two hours in the hospital yesterday," she shot back. "No thanks to you." She gestured with her right arm, still in its sling. "And do you really think I'm interested in screwing, less than a day after you got me in a wreck? With my son in the house, in the middle of the afternoon? You got no sense, Rusty Barwick! No sense at all!"

"Oh, come on, Miranda. We both know that ain't true." His voice took on a wheedling tone, the same as when he was trying to convince a prospective car-buyer to purchase a vehicle way outside their price range. "We both know you're always down to fuck. I learned that on our third date."

She shook her head, pushed to the limit. I so do not need this shit right now.

"You know, Rusty," she said wearily, not caring if he saw exactly how little he meant to her or not. "I used to think everyone was wrong about you. That you were a good guy, deep down, and that people who bitched about how you tried to screw them over when they were buying a car were just jealous.

"I was wrong. So wrong. You aren't just an asshole. There are plenty of those around here." She took a deep breath. "But you are so incredibly, majestically, catastrophically dumb that it goes beyond mere stupidity. It actually kind of approaches genius, but from the opposite direction." Her voice rose. "Do you really think, after what I went through yesterday, that you can just waltz in here like nothing fucking happened? I mean, look at me!" She gestured furiously at her sling with her good arm. "I can barely move my arm! And you can be goddamned sure that it's your fucking insurance that's going to be paying my hospital bill, not mine, you colossal dipshit. I could have been killed because you couldn't wait to read a stupid text! And you think I'm going to be happy to see you?

"Leave," she said, her eyes hard. "Don't come back. I don't want you around here ever again."

"Oh, no." Rusty caught the door as she tried to shut it in his face. "You don't get to talk to me that way, you stuck-up bitch." She pushed furiously, but she had only one working arm, and the larger man was able to force it open, her bare feet skidding across the floor. "I've had about enough of your smart mouth. It was all right when you were putting out for me. But not now. Not after the night I've had. You don't get to treat me this way."

"Actually," a flat voice said. "I think she does."

 Brendan stepped up to her right shoulder, a Louisville Slugger held in his hand. The barrel swung back and forth slowly near his feet. His face was rigid with fury.

"Back off, kid." But Rusty's voice was, for the first time, uneasy. "This is just between your mom and me."

"You're Mom's problem. Which makes you my problem. You got a problem with that, Rusty?" Brendan shoved at the bigger man's shoulder with the blunt end of the bat, forcing him back. "Huh? What's the matter, big man? Not so brave now, are you?" He crowded him back out the door and down the front steps, and Miranda took a moment to admire the taut curves of her son's rear as he pursued him. "Afraid to stand up to someone your own size?" Brendan reversed the bat, and Miranda's heart leaped into her throat. But instead of caving in Rusty's skull, a sharp, vicious jab to the midsection with the handle bent him over, clutching at his stomach. "How do you like it? Here's some advice, fuckstick. Don't start none. If you don't want none.

"Now." Brendan gave him a two-handed push down the sidewalk, not allowing him a chance to recover. Rusty stumbled, tripping over his own feet, almost falling to the ground. "You got two choices. Get into that shitbox of yours and drive away. And don't even think about coming around here again.

"Or we can throw down right now, you gigantic prick. And when we're done, if I'm feeling real generous, I might call an ambulance to haul your sorry ass away. But I probably won't.

"What's it going to be, you enormous fucking shitstain?"

"Punk." Rusty was still doubled over. Brendan must have caught him in the solar plexus, because he was choking for breath, his face red and mottled. "Fucking punk. If I was your age, I'd teach you a fucking lesson."

"I doubt it. But you could try. You want to go, big man? I'm right here." Brendan dropped the bat to the sidewalk, where it hit with a clatter, and kicked it away. "You and me. Man to man. Or man to used-car-salesman. Which would make it, what? Man to primate? I heard you guys only had one helix."

Rusty wilted. "I'm not going to waste my time on you," he sneered with false bravado. "Neither of you." An unconvincing swagger in his step, he walked back to the curb.

"Rusty?" Miranda called, putting a coquettish lure in her voice.

He scowled over his shoulder at her.

"I faked it. Every time."

Chapter 3: Whispers in the Mind

As Rusty climbed into his rented car and drove away with a squeal of his tires and a rising cloud of blue exhaust, Brendan could hardly keep his legs from shaking.

He had never liked the older man, who had been just the latest in a long line of his mother's boyfriends. None of them, luckily, had ever been able to get her within shouting distance of the altar. For as long as he could remember, they had been an almost constant parade in his life. No sooner was one gone than another showed up. On a few occasions, Miranda had gone as far as moving in with one of them, and Brendan had felt like a stranger, an interloper in someone else's house or apartment.

Luckily, those relationships never lasted very long, and sooner or later the two of them were back on their own again, which was the way he preferred it. None of the men his mother dated had been good enough for her, if anyone wanted his opinion. They had all treated her as if she was disposable. Not one, as far as he could see, really saw her for the truly extraordinary person that she was.

He picked up his baseball bat, trembling with a combination of anger and adrenaline. As soon as he had heard Rusty's raised voice, carrying into his bedroom, he had known what was going on. The older man was just the sort of spineless bully who enjoyed pushing around people who were weaker than he was, but backed down as soon as someone stood up to him. Part of him wanted to jump into his car, chase him down, and bludgeon him senseless. Or at least trash his car. A few solid swings with the bat would put out the headlights, and maybe he could make some interesting dents in the sides as well.

No. He took a deep breath. Don't be stupid. If he calls the cops, you know whose side they will take. And it won't be yours.

"Thanks, Brendan." His mother's voice was small, but her eyes were shining in gratitude. One corner of her mouth curled up in a smile, and he was struck by a sudden crazy urge to kiss it. "I don't think he would have taken a swing at me. But he was really mad, so who knows? I'm glad you were there. And so fierce!" Her smile widened. "You sounded like a badass hero in an action movie! Like Vin Diesel! Or The Rock!"

"Oh, come on, Mom." He looked at the ground, embarrassed. "You shouldn't make fun. I was worried about you. He had no call to talk to you like that."

"I wasn't making fun." She took a step closer, putting her hand on his arm. "I meant it. Thank you."

He smiled. "Well, you're welcome, then." He suddenly realized he was almost staring down the open neck of her sundress. And a pair of indentations in the cloth made it clear that his mother wasn't wearing a bra. He looked away, his face heating. A girlish giggle drew his eyes back.

"Sorry, honey." Miranda grinned up at him. "I didn't mean to give you such a good view of the girls. But you know how women are. Some of us get really...excited...when they see our men acting all manly."

"Oh," he replied. "Am I your man now?"

She snorted, and the awkward moment passed. "As close as I'm going to get to one for a while, I think." She raised her hand to her temple in an old, familiar gesture. Then, perhaps remembering the hard work Gene had put into making her hair look good, she pulled it back down again without raking her fingers through the blond tresses. "I've made up my mind, Brendan. No more losers."

"Well, good," he said, steering her inside. "I don't mean to try to run your life, Mom. But it always seemed to me that you would go out with any guy who told you a funny joke or bought you a drink or had a fast car. Maybe you should try raising your standards. For instance," he added, only half joking. "You could do a DNA test, and try to weed out the Neanderthals like Rusty. And maybe make sure that every man you date has at least a triple-digit IQ. I mean, just for variety's sake, if nothing else."

"Watch out, Brendan," she said. "Your sarcasm is showing."

"Sorry, Mom." He leaned against a wall, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his shorts. "But I get so damned tired watching you go out with guys who treat you like crap. Remember Dale? He would show up two or three nights a week and expect you to make him dinner, with no warning at all, like you were his mother instead of his girlfriend. And how many times did he hit you up for money, when he blew all of his on lottery tickets and video poker at the bar?"

"All right, all right!" She threw her hand up, scowling at him. "The horse is dead, Brendan. You can stop beating it now."

"Good." He folded her into a hug. "I only want what's best for you, you know," he whispered into her hair. Her scent filled his nostrils. Clean, like a warm breeze and sunlight.

"I know," she murmured into his chest. "But it's hard, Brendan. I know a young, handsome man like you might not realize it, but everybody needs to be loved, to have a little happiness. I've never had that. I've never had someone I could count on to be there for me. So I keep on looking."

"Maybe you've been looking in the wrong places," he said quietly. Remembering her words of earlier in the day, he added, "and you can't convince me that you're some dried-up old prune of a woman, Mom. You're still beautiful. Just...try to have some better standards, okay? The next man who comes along, make sure he is someone who deserves to be with a woman like you."

"Mmm." Her arms tightened fractionally around his chest. "Maybe I'll just keep you around. You've been doing a pretty good job of taking care of me the last few days. Cooking my meals, driving me around, running off testosterone-drunk assholes. A woman could get used to that sort of thing."

Unbidden, his hand came up to brush a lock of hair away from her face. Her lips were warm and pink as she smiled up at him, her expression somehow sensual and tender at the same time.

Deep inside him, something began to blink awake. He became aware of a slight swelling in his groin. Not that his cock was getting hard, of course. That would just be freaking perverted. But as if his cock was preparing to get hard, his entire groin feeling hot and heavy and subtly alert.

He stepped away, forcing a light smile to his face. "Yeah, about all I haven't done today is kill something for supper. But I suppose if I really had to, I could get Grandpa's old squirrel rifle out of the garage."

"Please don't." A merry light twinkled in her eyes. "If you do, I might melt from all of the sheer manliness in the air."

"Right."

*****

After dinner, Miranda took a shower, and then was forced to deal with the problem of getting dressed, unless she wanted to spend the next several days naked while her arm recovered. She was beginning to regain some use of it, but it still felt awkward and weak, almost as if she had slept on it wrong, and it was all numb and floppy.

I bet that's what Rusty's brain feels like all the time, she thought, and snickered.

She eyed her reflection in the mirror. She had managed to slip into a bathrobe, and the belt was awkwardly tied around her waist. But the night was warm and the robe was heavy and she was already beginning to sweat, and she would be damned if she was going to turn the air-conditioning on because she had a sprained shoulder.

To hell with this. She raised her voice. "Brendan? Can you come in here?"

A few seconds later, her son pushed the door open a few inches. A narrow strip of his face showed in the gap. "Yeah, Mom?"

"I need your help."

"Sure." The door swung wider, and he took a step into the room. "What with?"

She gestured at a pair of panties, a bra, and a thigh-length University of Kentucky t-shirt, lying neatly on the bed. "Getting dressed. I can manage the underwear. And even the shirt. But the bra is just impossible. Can you help me out?"

She hid a smile as her son swallowed nervously. "Help you get dressed?" The words emerged in an alarming squeak, and Brendan cleared his throat self-consciously.

"Yeah. I'm not going around bra-less for the next week or whatever. Especially when I have to go to work on Monday. Granted, the girls would enjoy the freedom, but I think Gail would have a thing or two to say. And if you're going to blush all the time, Brendan," she added, "the ladies at work are going to have so much fun with you. You think guys can be raw? You haven't ever worked with a bunch of women in their forties. All they talk about is PMS and who is going through menopause and who got laid the night before." She slipped her robe off. "Come on. The sooner you start the sooner it's over with."

"Mom!" Her son's eyes were wild.

"What?"

"You're naked!"

She cocked her head. "Yeah. That's how it works. Or were you thinking that I was going to wear my undies on the outside of my robe?" She shook her head. "I only tried the superhero look once, Brendan. And I was really wasted when I did."

Her son closed his eyes. "I do not want to know about this."

"Oh, stop being silly." She tossed her bra at him. "I know you've seen a naked woman before."

He caught the bra and held it gingerly by one strap, as if it might bite. "I've never seen my naked mother before."

She puffed out an impatient breath. "Well, if you stop babbling and start helping, I'll have some clothes on and you can go back to doing whatever."

"Fine." His face was still brick-red, but he held out the bra. She stuck her arms through the straps, and waited while he fumbled with the hooks in back.

"I'm sure you know how these things work, Brendan," she smiled. "Come on. Concentrate."

"Easy for you to say. Taking them off, yeah. I've done that a time or two. I've just never put one on before."

"Well, I'm actually kind of happy to hear that. Your grandmother would roll over in her grave if you were a cross-dresser."

She felt his warm breath on her neck as he snorted and the hooks finally closed. "Right. Being a bastard was bad enough. If I had been gay or something, that would have been the final straw. My moral degeneracy would have been God's judgement on both of us."

She laughed as she tested the fit and adjusted the cups so her breasts sat in them more comfortably. "Moral degeneracy? Big words they're teaching you up there at UK, Brendan."

"Whatever." He picked her panties off the bed. "Kind of boring, Mom." He raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Don't you have anything fancier?"

She raised her chin. "I didn't want to shock my impressionable young child by wearing the crotchless ones." She tapped a toe, trying to ignore the rising heat within her as they bantered. "Come on. My butt is getting cold."

Awkwardly, he knelt at her feet, holding her panties, and she stepped into the leg holes. Looking down at his back as he raised her underwear up her legs, she thought back to how he had chased Rusty out of the house and into the street earlier in the day.

God, how that had turned her on! Miranda had thought she was old enough not to be impressed by all that macho crap. She wasn't in high school anymore, not by about twenty years. But watching Brendan turn Rusty into a whining little bitch, slinking away to save his worthless hide, had been incredibly arousing. Her nipples had gotten all knotty and stiff inside her dress, and when he hugged her afterward, she had been hard put not to grope his strong young body, feeling firm muscles without a hint of flab. Her son, at least, had been able to avoid the results of too much bad food and cheap beer at college.

And when he held her, she sighed. He had felt so safe. So restful and comforting. But strong, too. Her son wasn't a weakling. Their lives had been too hard for that. But he didn't have sharp edges, either. No woman would ever be afraid that he would turn on her in a fit of childish temper.

"Mom? Come on, Earth to Mom!"

She blinked. "Oh. Sorry. I guess I kind of zoned out for a second."

"Yeah." He waved the t-shirt at her in irritation. "What's this?"

"It's a t-shirt."

"Yeah. I know that. Where did you get it?"

"Um..." She colored guiltily. "From the laundry?"

"Mom! This is my shirt! Remember? You bought it for me the day I got the acceptance letter to UK, to celebrate. Do you have any idea how long I've been looking for it? I was sure someone up at school stole it out of one of the dryers in the laundry room!"

"Thanksgiving," she whispered guiltily. "It was at Thanksgiving." It should have been ridiculous, standing in her underwear, arguing over a t-shirt, but she felt the need to explain. "You were gone and I was alone. Just me, coming home to an empty house for the first time in my life." She swallowed. "I missed you, Brendan. So much. You were the reason I kept on, why I went to work on days when I just wanted to stay in bed and cry, why I would take one more shift at whatever crummy job I was working at so I could get just a little bit further ahead.

"One day, you'll understand. When you find the right woman, when you have a baby of your own. You'll look down at her and suddenly realize that there's not one single thing in the world you would not do to keep her safe.

"So when I got to missing you too bad, I would wear this. And it would help. At least, a little."

"Oh." Brendan looked down at his feet. "I didn't know." He lifted the shirt apologetically. "Sorry. I shouldn't have gotten all upset. Here."

She lowered her head, and Brendan slipped the shirt over her, helping her maneuver her injured arm into a comfortable position, then bent down to adjust the hem, which had rucked up around her thighs.

The sight of his head, so close to her groin, made her feel distinctly nervous. What if he sensed her growing arousal?

"Mom?" he said, blinking solemnly up at her. His hands settled on her hips. The heat seemed to seep into her skin, turning her insides liquid.

"What?" Her voice was a cracked whisper. Her mind churned, caught between desire and denial.

And then her son lifted up the hem of her borrowed shirt, planted his lips firmly on her belly, and blew the biggest, loudest raspberry on her stomach that she had ever heard in her life.

She shrieked, half a scream and half a laugh, and staggered back, swatting ineffectually at Brendan's shoulders as she vainly sought to escape. He followed her across the room on his knees, his lips blasting against her skin, until the backs of her knees hit her bedframe and she sprawled on her back on the mattress. Brendan followed her, giving her one last raspberry as a parting gift. He looked up at her, his eyes laughing, and kissed her belly button.

"You..." She stammered, at a loss for words. "What are you? Six?"

"Please," he said as he got to his feet. "I am a fully functional adult male. Which means I have an intellectual age of at least nine years old. I mean, for one thing, I don't always laugh at fart jokes."

But his walk, as he exited the room, had more than a little of a macho swagger. "Sleep well, Mom."

*****

The next day was Sunday, and Brendan took advantage of what promised to be his last chance to sleep late for a while. He would start work the next day, and his mother had told him the previous evening that bad arm or no, she intended to be there as well.

"Getting in a wreck with that loser Rusty was not the way I planned on getting a long weekend," she had sighed, as they had sat watching a movie late on Saturday night. "I hate having to take a sick day because of that idiot. But Monday is when we get a lot of the supplies in, and I have to be there to help coordinate things."

He slept until nearly ten and had a late breakfast, then turned on the television, looking for a ballgame, or at least a decent movie to watch. His mother, he saw, was out in the back yard, her eyes focused like lasers on the ground in front of her. Every few steps, she bent to the ground, a long-handled screwdriver in her hand. A stab at the ground with the blade, a quick tug, and yet another innocent dandelion met an untimely demise. It made him laugh. Miranda Dallben wouldn't hear of calling in the perfectly competent landscaping crew who worked for the nursery to give her lawn a weed-prevention treatment. That would cost money. She, by God, was going to do the work herself.

He watched her as she bent to the ground again, then crawled in search of new prey. Her tight gray shorts clung to the taut curves of her rear, and her legs, tanned a light gold, caught the light of the late-May sun.

Damn, she's hot. Over the weekend, he had slowly become aware of his growing desire for his mother. Part of him knew he shouldn't be feeling the urges that were swelling inside him. But the warning voice had grown fainter and fainter, like a dream that, upon waking, faded beyond recall. Unconsciously, his hand slipped inside the pair of old sweats he was wearing, watching his gorgeous mother as she weeded. That moment last night, when he had knelt like a supplicant at her feet, was seared in his memory. He had been so close, so close to making a move on her. Only some tiny fragment of self-preservation had kept him from planting a kiss on Miranda's crotch, instead turning it into a raspberry on her stomach; an echo of what she had used to do to him when he was little.Oh, but it could have been so sweet. If he had dared. If he had found the courage. His cock swelled, filling his hand, as he gazed at her small, trim body. Not as busty as some. But he had never been attracted to women with breasts the size of cantaloupes. In his eyes, his mother's slim, petite body was perfection. And that view had only been enhanced the previous evening. He wondered if she had felt the same siren song of attraction he had, if her body responded to his in the same way.

God. He was so hard now that he was aching. A sudden mad urge filled him. To slip down his shorts and stroke himself to release right there. But then his mother stood, brushed off her hands, slipped the screwdriver into a back pocket, and headed towards the door. Feeling like a kid who was about to get caught stealing from the cookie drawer, he jerked his hand out of his sweats as she slid the patio door open.

"Have fun weeding?" he asked with a smile.

"You know, you're never going to get them all," she replied. "That's what old Miss Phelps down the street used to tell me when I first bought the place. I'm not trying to win. Just fight them to a draw." Her eyes strayed to his crotch, then back up to his face, her lips curling in an amused smile. "Good movie?" she asked.

He found his face heating. It wasn't every mother who remarked, no matter how obliquely, on her son's erection. "It was at a sexy bit," he stammered.

"Oh, yes," she agreed cheerfully, and glanced at the television. "I always thought the prison rape scene in Shawshank was sexy as hell. Or maybe it was something else that got your motor running?

"I'm going to go clean up," she added, sauntering away. A look over her shoulder showed him her mouth, curled in a smile that made his heart skip.

"Try not to think too much about me when I'm gone. I would hate for you to have an...accident."

Chapter 4: Double Vision

The next morning dawned cool and cloudy. Brendan woke up around six, pulled his blankets around him more comfortably, and turned over, perfectly content to not get up until a more civilized hour. Noon, for instance.

His mother, on the other hand, had other plans. Just when he was drifting off again, she pushed open the door to his room and said, "Just what I thought. Get up."

"Whazza?" he muttered muzzily.

"Work, Brendan. You start today." She jerked down his blankets heartlessly. "You told me getting up early wasn't going to be a problem, remember? So let's get moving. The nursery opens at eight, but I want to get there early so we can get your paperwork done. Now, come on." She set her hands on her hips and fixed him with a stern eye. "Get up."

"God. The sun isn't even up yet," he complained, slowly getting to his feet. He rubbed his eyes, blinking. "You know, I could have been naked under there."

"And what a treat for me that would have been," she said acidly. "My terrible curiosity about the size of my son's package could have at last been answered. That is, if I didn't get a good long look yesterday." She glanced down at his middle, decently covered by a pair of navy-blue boxers, and smirked. "No morning wood today? Too bad. A girl does like to feel appreciated." She turned and walked towards the door. His hands twitched as he watched the sexy sway of her hips. Perhaps sensing his stare, she smiled over her shoulder at him. "Thirty minutes. Be ready."

"And how are you going to get there, if I'm the one driving you?" he muttered, making sure she couldn't hear him. But he headed for the bathroom. You know, I might have made a mistake. Last semester I didn't have a single class before ten in the morning. And now I'm going to be up at seven every day. Gross.

Though on the other hand, he thought as he stepped into the shower, the hot water sluicing away the last remainders of sleep, I get to spend all day with Mom. Kind of. He soaped his crotch, his fingers lingering on the swelling length of his penis. God, she's so hot. How can I get her into bed?

His imagination shifted, painting an erotic picture of Miranda lying on his bed, sunlight gilding her lightly-tanned body. He hovered over her, his cock hard as he entered her, her arms wrapping around him tight, her voice sighing into his ear as plunged into her wetness...

"Brendan? Fifteen minutes. Are you almost done in there?"

"Come in and find out," he gritted between his teeth, and for an instant, wasn't sure whether he meant it or not. If his mother did walk into the bathroom and twitch aside the shower curtain, would she be impressed by his erection? Or repelled?

His cock made his decision for him. He closed his eyes and let himself go, his rod throbbing in his fist as his orgasm hit, shooting ropes of cum into the air before they fell to the base of the shower, mingling with soap and shampoo and swirling down the drain.

His legs wobbled and he sagged against the side of the shower, overcome by the sheer force of his climax. His balls felt drained, completely empty, and he wondered how simply jerking off in the shower could feel better than the last time he'd had sex.

Because you were thinking about Miranda when you were doing it, a small voice told him.

A small fist hit the door of the bathroom. "Brendan! Ten minutes! Let's go!" his mother's voice snapped impatiently.

I guess she's not a morning person, he snickered as he turned off the water.

He had to rush to make it to the nursery by seven, his mother fuming in the passenger seat next to him. But he pulled into the gravel lot a few minutes early.

"Follow me," she said, striding across the lot to the long, low building which housed the offices for the nursery. Her legs ate up the ground, and he had to hurry to keep up with her.

A few people were already inside, standing around and sipping coffee, dressed in heavy, durable clothes that looked like they had seen a lot of hard work.

"Brendan!" An older woman, her dark hair slowly turning silver, walked over to him. "Miranda told us you would be starting today!"

"Hi, Mrs. Bixby," he replied.

"Don't you 'Mrs. Bixby' me, young man." She waved a finger in his face. "Here, I'm Gail." She winked at him. "I can't have all the rest of the people here think I'm getting too good for them."

He laughed as the owner of the nursery pulled him aside, waving a vague hello at his mother, who went to pour herself a cup of coffee. "Sit down," she said, pointing a peremptory finger at a chair in front of her desk. "I've got your paperwork here, to make it all nice and legal with the feds and the state." She handed him a pen. "Get cracking."

He obliged, bending over the desk and filling out his name, address, social security number, and a dozen other piddly details.

"You do look like your father," the older woman mused quietly,

His eyes jerked up. "You knew my dad?"

She nodded. "Knew his parents, really. He was always a wild one, your daddy. Not a bad kid. But never with a thought to the future. A lot like your momma was, back in those days. Still is, a bit. Though she's settled down a lot since she started working here." Her faded blue eyes were sharp. "Is it true about what I heard? She dumped Rusty?"

Brendan wasn't sure how much of his mother's business he should be airing. But he figured word would get out sooner or later. "Yeah. Good riddance, if you ask me."

"Me, too. Though I guess the guys will be starting the pool again."

"The pool?" He finished up the paperwork and handed it over.

"Yeah." Gail sighed sadly. "Your momma is the sort of woman who always seems to need a man around, Brendan. So there's a pool about how long it will take her to hook up with someone new. Usually doesn't take much longer than a week or so."

He capped the pen and handed it over, smiling thinly. "I don't think so. We made a deal. No more losers. I'm making sure of it."

"Oh?" She raised an elegant eyebrow. "Well, good luck with that. It would do me good to see her with a good man for a change."

"Me, too." He stood up. "So. What's my job?"

The older woman grinned evilly. "Whatever we tell you to do."

*****

Miranda was relieved that Gail Bixby had taken Brendan off her hands. It was awkward, working with her own son. Especially when she considered the simmering sexual tension that had been growing between them for days.

She knew it was wrong. That she shouldn't be having these feelings for Brendan. But ever since Saturday afternoon, when he had run Rusty off their property, she had found her eyes straying to him whenever she wasn't doing anything else. He was so damned attractive it made her body heat just looking at him. Not too tall, maybe. Just a shade under six feet. But the way he walked and held himself, with an athlete's grace, made him appear taller.

She sighed wistfully, watching him through the windows as he unloaded a truck with old Jim Wiggins, the muscles of his arms bunching as he accepted another flat of flowers and lowered it to a waiting dolly. Not even Brendan's father had affected her at such a primal level. In his bedroom that morning, she had barely been able to keep from walking into her son's arms. He had been so cute, all sleep-rumpled and sexy, his chest dusted with hair, and a thicker trail leading from his belly button down to his groin. Half of her wished that he had been sleeping naked, so she could finally get a good long look at what he had been hiding from her.

She snickered, then bent back to her paperwork, setting up the schedule for the next week. I bet it would be a long look. And probably a thick one as well. That one glimpse the day before was seared into her memory, of Brendan sprawled on the couch, the unmistakable bulge of an erection tenting his shorts. His stuttering excuse had been so transparently false she almost laughed.

Had it been for her? Did her son find her as attractive as she found him? She wasn't under any illusions where young men were concerned. Their hyperactive libidos were one of the things about them that she had liked best, before prudence had led her to pursue men closer to her own age. She knew that Brendan's erection could have been caused by any number of things - anything from a wandering hand to a pleasant daydream. But what if it had been her making her son hard and stiff? The thought was as exhilarating as it was terrifying.

I bet he would listen when I told him what I liked, she sighed. Her groin throbbed, and she squeezed her thighs together, clamping her lips closed on a silent moan. In fact, he would have to! She smiled. Fuck me right, Brendan! Or you're grounded!

"Penny for your thoughts," Gail said, resting a hip against the side of her desk.

She started, then covered it with a sip of lukewarm coffee. "That I am through with men who take me for granted," she said, surprised into bluntness. "I had a good long talk with Brendan, the other day. He told me pretty much what all my friends keep saying. I've spent half of my life trying to fill up the hole in my life with anyone who could tie their shoes without a set of instructions. Maybe I should set my standards a little higher."

"Well, I'm happy to hear that," the older woman replied. "I mean, I'm just your boss, and I'm not interested in my employee's personal lives-" Miranda rolled her eyes at the patent falsehood, and she grinned - "but I would like to see you with a man who lifted you up instead of holding you back. I mean, you've gone from cashier to assistant manager in nine years. And I didn't cut you any slack on the way. Think about what you could do with a man who was a partner.

"Speaking of which, have you warned Brendan about the Terrible Twosome?"

She glanced at a corner, where Melanie Warren and Brigitte Harris were gossiping and filling a rack with flower and vegetable seed packets. "Why?"

"Because I heard them whispering about Brendan. You know how those two are, Miranda. Always looking for some fresh meat during summer break." She shrugged elaborately. "What they do on their own time is their business. Lord knows there's not much to do around here. But I don't want a repeat of what happened with Jim Bob Cullen a couple years back. Poor kid actually thought Melanie was in love with him." She snorted. "If he had been able to think with anything but what he had hanging between his legs, he'd have realized that Melanie only cares about one person, and that's herself."

She glanced out the window, where Pedro Alvarez had come up and was speaking rapidly to Brendan. Her son answered haltingly in Spanish, and the older man laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, obviously delighted to find someone who actually tried to speak his language. "I think Brendan's smarter than that."

"I would have said the same about Jim Bob," Gail replied. "The boy was practically engaged, for heaven's sake. But he still let Melanie lead him around by the nose."

"I'll warn him." But she smiled quietly to herself. That tramp isn't going to lay a finger on my boy. I know what he wants, even if he doesn't.

And it's not her.

*****

"Whew." Brendan collapsed into the seat of his car. "That sucked."

His mother slid into the seat next to him and closed the door, her nose wrinkling at the not-entirely-unpleasant smell of sweat. "That? That was nothing. We took it easy on you today."

"What?" He glanced at her as he pulled out of the parking lot. "I was hauling stuff around all day. I think I pulled a muscle I didn't even know I had!"

"Wait until we send you out to lay down some sod for some family who wants a new lawn," his mother warned him. Unlike him, she looked fresh as a daisy. Even her sling, which had been a constant reminder of her accident over the last few days, was conspicuous by its absence. "Or when we get a shipment of a couple hundred saplings. Everyone lends a hand then. Even the folks who usually spend their day behind a desk, like me.

"And did you think this was going to be easy, Brendan? I warned you weeks ago, when you asked about it. This is hard, dirty work. The kind of work a lot people think they're too good to do." She eyed him sidelong as they waited out a red light. "I certainly hope you're not one of them."

Stung, he straightened out of his tired slouch. "I can do anything you guys throw at me," he retorted hotly.

"Good," Miranda replied calmly. "Since Jim wanted to know if he could take you out on the truck tomorrow. Seems like you impressed him today. He allowed as how you weren't completely fucking useless, in his words."

"What a ringing endorsement," he grunted, pulling away from the intersection as the light turned green.

"For Jim? Actually it is. He doesn't have much use for college types, as he calls them."

"Ah." He smiled as they pulled into the driveway. "So this is adulthood, huh? You work under degrading and humiliating conditions, and at the end of the week someone gives you not enough money?"

"At the end of two weeks, actually," his mother said, getting out of the car. She smiled at his crestfallen expression. "We're on the biweekly plan, Brendan. Get used to it."

By the end of his first week working with his mother, Brendan thought he would go crazy if something didn't happen to snap the tension.

He had never felt this way about any other girl. Oh, he'd been in relationships before. A couple of girlfriends during high school, and a one-night stand or two during his first year of college. But none of them had affected him on such a primal level.

He and his mother were always around each other, for one thing. It might have been different if they'd been working at different places. But unless he was asleep, his mother was always nearby. And somehow, it seemed, she was always in position to maximize the effect of her body. Whether she was standing on tiptoe to put a box of cereal in a cabinet, accentuating the clean lines of her legs, or chatting with a customer at the nursery, her trim, slender body in profile, showing him the exquisite curves of her breasts, he couldn't escape her.

Not that he wanted to escape her. And not that Miranda wasn't showing every sign of returning his attention. When he was at work, it seemed that she was almost inventing excuses to be nearby. And when they were at home, there was usually a good-morning hug that lingered just a little longer than was necessary, a good-night kiss that strayed close to his mouth, and touches and caresses which gained intensity as the days went by. As the weather warmed, spring deepening into the slow humid days of a Kentucky summer, she took to wearing clothes which did all they could to show off her body - shirts that were cropped short, shorts that exposed her slim, attractive legs. And he would be a complete idiot if he didn't realize that she was walking around without a bra a lot more often these days, the curves of her breasts barely hidden by whatever inadequate garment she was using to cover her chest.

It was, to be perfectly honest, driving him absolutely crazy. He wanted, desperately, to make a move. But how could he? One wrong step, he knew, and the chance would be lost. Maybe forever.

Sunday was a day off for both of them, and after six days in a row of work, he needed it, worn out by a job that demanded a lot more physical labor than he had expected. His mother was cavalier about his suffering, observing with callous disregard that she had warned him, so he really had no one to blame but himself.

He was sitting on the couch, lunch over and way too early to be thinking about supper, half-watching a ballgame on the television, when his mother came in from another search-and-destroy mission against dandelions, crabgrass, creeping Charlie, and other nefarious denizens of the backyard.

"Mission accomplished?" he asked as she flopped down into the opposite corner of the couch and kicked off her sandals.

"For now." She sighed and wiggled her toes.

"You know, I hate to say it, but I'm sure Gail would cut you a deal if you wanted to have some of the guys come by and give the lawn a treatment. That way you wouldn't be spending a couple of hours a week digging up weeds."

She scowled at him. "I can take care of my own lawn without any help, thank you very much."

"All right." He raised his hands in surrender. "I was just making a suggestion."

"Here." Her feet plopped into his lap. "Do something useful, will you? My feet are killing me. Can you give them a rub?"

He wrinkled his nose at her, even as he turned and muted the television. No great loss, since the Cardinals were kicking the ever-loving crap out of the Braves. "You know, I'm not a registered foot-massager. Or whatever they're called. I could probably get arrested for doing this without a license." He grinned at her. "Think of the shame and disgrace to our family name."

"Less talking, more massaging," she said, wiggling her feet impatiently.

"All right." He kicked off his own shoes and put his back against the arm of the couch. His mother's legs were between his, and he took her left foot in his hands. The sole was lightly stained with grass clippings, the residue of his mowing the yard the evening before.

"Oh, god, that's good." Her head fell back as he massaged the sole, his thumbs circling slowly. Her toes flexed, stretching and curling in a visible sign of her pleasure. "Don't mind me, Brendan. I'm just going to lie here and drool for a while."

"Well, that's certainly attractive," he smiled.

"Who am I supposed to impress?" Her other foot slid up the inside of his thigh. "Here. This one is getting jealous." 

Obligingly, he switched feet, letting the first rest in his lap as he worked on the second. As he did, he covertly admired Miranda's body. Her shirt, an old tee from a brief stint as a waitress, was thin from many washings, and he could see the shadowy curves of her breasts through the cloth. Her shorts, on the other hand, were loose and baggy, and from his angle he could look up the leg-holes almost all the way up to her waist. Her legs were trim and lean, firmly muscled without being stumpy, and he felt the first stirrings in his crotch as the sole of her foot rested on his groin.

"See anything you like?"

His head jerked up to find a pair of dark blue eyes looking at him. Not angry, thank God. Curious, maybe? Or perhaps even ever-so-slightly worried? Concerned that her only child would look at her and decide that he could do better?

"Quite a bit," he answered, somehow managing to hold his voice steady. "What there is of it."

"What?" Her voice held incredulous disbelief.

"Well, Mom, I won't say your legs aren't lovely. But, you know, there just isn't much of them. It's not your fault," he added piously. "I mean, you can't help it that you're so short."

"Hah. You saw a lot more the other night. And you blew your chance."

He grinned. "Totally worth it. How many people can say they blew a raspberry on their mother's stomach?"

"The ones who are six years old?"

"You're just jealous."

"Hmph. You haven't shown me a whole lot to be jealous of, now have you?"

He met her eyes, ignoring the gibe. "And I got such a short look. Maybe...you wanted me to see you, Mom? All of you?"

If he hadn't been watching her reaction, he might have missed the way the tips of her breasts stiffened, pressing against the cloth of her shirt in such a way as to make her arousal undeniably evident. "Just like a boy," she sniffed, turning her head away, though her breath quickened. "One helping not enough for you?"

"I'm not a boy," he parried. "I'm a man."

"Oh? Prove it."

He leaned back, both of her feet in his lap, as his thumbs ran circles around her soles and his fingers massaged the tops, running over the fragile bones. "You show me yours, I show you mine? Pretty kinky, Mom."

"Like you haven't been staring at me like a freshman at the head cheerleader for the past week," she retorted. Her foot pushed, ever so slightly, into his crotch, as if she was testing him. Hoping to find...what? "All I want is what's fair."

He paused, letting the moment play out. Then, without saying a word, he moved her feet to the side and unbuttoned his shorts. The sound of the zipper being lowered was very loud in the quiet room. On the television, the two baseball teams ran and jumped like a crazed band of mimes, and were ignored.

He pushed the shorts down his legs, then flicked them to the floor. Miranda wetted her lips with her tongue and stared at his crotch. "The boxers, too," she whispered.

Brendan could see the pulse pounding in his mother's throat, and the tan expanse of her stomach was sheened with sweat. But he pushed down the waistband of his underwear without a second's thought. His cock was fat and thick, laying against the inside of his thigh.

"Now you," he said.

Her underwear slid down her legs, along with the baggy beige shorts. She cocked her head at him as they hit the floor, her gaze challenging. The lips of her vulva were puffy and slightly unfurled, like a rose that was only a day or two away from full flower.

Yeah, Mom. The words came to his mind unbidden. I want to see your pussy bloom. I want to make your pussy bloom. And then you'll forget about all those other guys. It will just be you. And me.

"I want to see it." The words were a whisper, barely heard. "I want to see you get hard."

He ran a foot up her calf. "That won't be...difficult." He smiled, avoiding the obvious pun. Then, feeling slightly ridiculous, he pulled off his shirt, so that he was facing her completely nude.

"Well?" Her eyes met his, challenging. "Aren't you going to...you know? With your hands?"

"Mom." He shook his head.

"I don't need my hands.

"All I need is you."