Society Rules (3 page)

Will would then attack her with an enthusiasm that never failed to take her breath away, at least in appreciation for the effort.

They would make love, Will giving his all and then some, using his hands, mouth and other appendages in a quest to give her satisfaction. Indie was savvy enough to know that Will was well equipped to give any woman serious quantities of pleasure, but the grand finale’ never made its appearance for her, and she took this on as just another failure of her own doing.

The only true pleasure she could honestly say she gained from these encounters was the closeness they shared afterwards, however brief.

Will was heavily into “after play”, and the attention he gave her after the act itself was golden to her.

He would hold her close to his warm, tight body, offering soft kisses and words of love. It was the only time, as far as Indie could tell, that William Taylor opened himself up . . . offering his emotions to her freely. She could feel in him a desperate need; the loneliness caused by burdens to great to bear.

Although it did nothing for her sexually, the attention made her feel needed . . .
there
. She responded instinctively to him when he let down that virtual force field he’d created around himself. It made her feel—well—almost . . .
loved
.

As if she actually existed and mattered.

Sometimes, forgetting her own emptiness, she thought her heart might break for him. He seemed so in need of
something
from her . . . something she obviously could not give him.

But she wanted to feel the fire. Hell, she wanted
eye
contact
. It seemed as if Will never really even
saw
her except in sporadically rare and increasingly far flung moments. Why couldn’t she feel the way the girls in her books felt?

And why did she always have a vague sense of unease whenever she
did
use the art of seduction on her husband . . . an odd feeling that she was doing something that she shouldn’t.

It was creepy and annoying.

No wonder Will never sought her out on his own. For all of his enthusiasm during the act, and emotional outpouring afterward, as soon as he left the room, their relationship went generic and static once more.

Will would return to his role as the man so very well in control that Indie would be forced to wonder if she had imagined the whole thing.

The only thing that seemed to really break through his emotional barrier were his children.

He loved them. Anyone could see that. And he was fiercely protective of them. Cassidy, the more “in your face” of the twins, would roust him from his computer and demand his attention. He almost never said no, although he always tore himself away a bit too soon for the kids’ liking, stating that he had to “get back to work.”

Will wouldn’t even have them, if it hadn’t been for Indie’s pride imploding efforts. She had wanted children badly enough to open herself up to the embarrassment of basically “begging” for it, for as long as it took.

Once Indie finally conceived, she made it a point of pride never to be the one to approach Will again for sex. She couldn’t bear the thought that perhaps he didn’t truly find her enticing, or worse, performed only as an obligation. Oh, what a revelation that would be. She had heard others gossiping in the break room at work about someone being a “pity-lay.”

Indie knew what this was, and had no intention of having that handle tattooed across her forehead! If she ever found out that was the case, she was more than a little sure that she might strangle the man she’d married. The very idea made her cringe. Besides, if he wanted it, he knew where to find her, didn’t he?

As a result, Indie and Will had made love exactly twelve times during the last nine years, and each time there had been some kind of event that had forced Will to look over and acknowledge Indie and apparently light his fire for that moment.

In other words, there had been a heck of a lot of dry spell in Indie’s world.

At times, her need to feel loved was so overwhelming, she was ready to take it any way she could get it, pride be damned . . . but then her sensibilities would return, and she would refocus her energy on other things.

Mundane things.

The running helped burn off a little frustration, but it was a hollow relief.

She’d briefly considered the idea that Will might have a girlfriend on the side. This possibility hurt Indie, but oddly didn’t devastate her. That idea was quickly dismissed though, because Will was unfailingly where he was supposed to be at all times, and a work-a-holic to the extreme.

A computer genius, his HP seemed to be the recipient of all of Will’s passion these days.

At any rate, he was gone for the day, and Indie needed to get moving. Cassidy was already awake as usual, stroking and cooing to the dog.

“Get dressed honey, and come to the kitchen for breakfast,” Indie chirped cheerfully to her daughter. Cassidy nodded, and looked up at her mother, her eyes twinkling mischievously.

“Max needs a bath, Mommy. He smells like Poo-Bear!”

Indie coughed back a laugh.

“Maybe that could be a project for you and Jake after school today then, huh? No one appreciates a dog that smells like Fritos and tail feathers! Now hit the breakfast table, okay?”

Cassidy snickered and bounced off to do her bidding.

Amused, Indie watched her go.

Is it even necessary for me to get up with them?
She wondered with a touch of exasperated pride, just as she did every day.

She wandered into the hallway and peeked in at Jake. His eyes were closed, but opened as soon as she looked at him. Indie came in and sat down on the edge of his bed.

“Hi, Mommy,” he whispered in his sweet little boy voice.

She loved that he still called her “Mommy”, even though at nine years old he was pushing the “Mommy” envelope. Indie hoped he didn’t get grief at school from all of the other little kids for still being her baby. She doubted it.

The kid was simply dripping with confidence and serenity.

“Hi, little pup.” She gazed at his soft, sweet face . . . looking so much younger than his years. He had the face and build of a six year old, as did his sister.

Indie looked much younger than her age as well. No one could ever believe that she was forty years old. Not that this fact displeased her. She rather enjoyed hearing the gasps of disbelief whenever the subject of her age came up. It never failed to boost her spirits a bit, making her feel special, but not in a weird way, although lately it
was
getting to be a little ridiculous. It seemed that the years were simply not catching up to her.

Will was five years younger than Indie, but no one would ever dream this was the case. People generally guessed her to be in her early twenties, but she had once been told that she could pass for a “mature teenager,” whatever that meant.

“Time to get up, little son,” she smiled as she pulled the covers off of his warm body. Of course, he was fully dressed.

Like always. Just another game they played. The kids were always awake and ready on time.

After a short struggle so that she could pin her son down and kiss his whole face, Indie sent Jake scurrying into the kitchen and followed, tripping over her husband’s boots that he had left in the hallway.

Flash of irritation, then remorse. Negative feelings unnerved her and it struck her as all wrong whenever her thoughts went dark.

She loved her husband in a warm, comfortable way and her feelings of discontent made her feel guilty and vile. She knew he was a good person at heart.

Lack of sexual interest aside, William Taylor was just your typical distracted, self-absorbed, let your wife take care of everything
guy
!

She shook off her vague feeling of annoyance, and proceeded to get the kids’ breakfast. Today they wanted Greek yogurt and honey. Luckily, they always had matching cravings, which made mornings much easier, and their health-food obsession was one installed in them by Indie from the very beginning. Indie herself, devoured a piece of toast and then got dressed for work while they ate.

She’d been able to negotiate the perfect schedule at Central Mountain Manor, the local nursing home. Her personality was perfectly suited to the nursing profession, and she loved her job. Previously, Indie had worked at the hospital, but as had happened many times before, her gift for unnerving people in her profession drove her out the door to a less conspicuous location.

It was nothing that she could ever explain in a way that didn’t freak people out, but Indie was always able to tell what was basically wrong with her patients as soon as she put her hands on them. She could tell if a person was dehydrated, or if the injury or illness was minor, or something more ominous right away.

Her habit of speaking while touching them, and making these pronouncements aloud without thinking, had caused many of the doctors and other nurses some distress.

Indie supposed that they thought her a freak.

Whispers of “psychic” hit her from behind, and once, while leaning over a patient that she felt had internal bleeding, a doctor had made a ridiculous comment about Indie being some kind of witch, heard clearly by her sensitive ears.

She’d finally requested a transfer to a nursing home that belonged to the same corporation, and this was granted with unusual speed and efficiency.

Indie fit in much better with long-term patients. Whenever they did notice her, the staff here thought she was great, so in tune was she to every resident’s slightest change in condition.

She always knew when it was someone’s time to die. If Indie put her hands on a person and felt the burn in her belly that meant death was inevitable, they had better start scrawling out a last will and testament on a napkin, because it was about to be all over.

Indie spent many a night at the nursing home, staying over after her shift ended, simply holding the hand of a patient she knew was on the slide toward home plate . . . the return to their maker. If someone had no family, Indie flatly refused to leave them.

No one should die alone, in her opinion, although during these times when she would stay and give the gift of her compassion to the dying, Indie always had the distinct feeling that they were in fact not alone. She could sense a presence in the room with them, and felt sure that some sort of entity had come for her patient, waiting to escort them to the next realm.

Sometimes she saw things; images in her peripheral vision that gave the impression of comforting presence . . . human shapes. Other times the things she saw were nothing more than disturbances in the air . . . a rippling in the fabric of this dimension.

These little things were some of the reasons that Indie, at times, questioned herself. Not that she
really
believed that she was crazy, or a freak, but then, she knew how others saw her. She knew their reactions to her actions, and heard their whispers. It was one of the curses of having “superhuman” hearing.

This was nothing new. Indie had faced these kinds of public relations issues her entire life. She had always felt like she was outside of the glass of humanity, trying to find a way in, like a winged creature flailing away at a window.

It wasn’t so much that she
wanted
to “fit in”, as much as having a strong sense that she needed to.

There was also the odd feeling that there was some sort of duty she was fulfilling by trying to blend in seamlessly with the rest of the human race, although she usually felt that she failed spectacularly.

She was also fairly certain that other people . . .
normal
people, did not have to work at getting through the day without freaking others out.

Since she married Will though, she had discovered that she could plod her way through life by taking up the most mind paralyzing—no, that was much too exciting—mind
numbing
pattern of repetition.

For the last ten years, no matter where the family had moved, Indie immediately set out to pound in the stakes of a normal routine. Get the kids settled, get a job, and begin to play the role that was beginning to show a little wear and tear around the edges.

She had always had a faint sense of unease and discontent since her life began. Or at least after the sudden death of her mother when she was only three. She could remember her mother clearly, in spite of her young age at the time of her death.

Beautiful. Bohemian and hippy-chick-ish. She’d named her daughter Indiana, after the state in which she had been born.

After the accident, Indie’s distraught father pawned her off to various relatives, to be raised by them in short increments; passed around like a Christmas fruitcake until she was old enough to flee.

This allowed her father to slowly drink himself to death without interference. The only stability she had ever had was within herself, and she had become self reliant, as well as a nurturer and caretaker of others at a very early age.