Never Say Forever

“He ran away before she could show him what hole. Because she meant his bum hole!” She begins to cackle again, her hand slapping the cushions in mirth before she stops abruptly. “Don’t tell Mommy I told you what his hole is. She says it’s not for little girls to say.”

“Your secret is safe with me. Your granny sounds pretty fearsome. I think I would’ve run, too.”

“She wouldn’t say that to you.” She eyes me consideringly. “She’d say that man is a fine thing.” According to her impersonation, Lulu’s granny has a deep voice and fluttery hands. “Then she’d tell Mommy that she could do lots worst. And to take you on a date.”

“Does your mommy go out on many dates?” Fishing, fishing, fishing.

“Just sometimes with Uncle Charles,” she answers, pronouncing his name the French way. Sharles.

“Uncle Charles, huh?” My gut tightens unpleasantly. Who the fuck is Charles? I’d put money on him not being Lulu’s uncle. “Does she go out with Charles often?”

She answers with a shrug. “Sometimes he sleeps over, and when he wakes up, we watch cartoons together, and he makes crepes.”

Motherfucker.

Out of the mouths of babes comes the truth. So much for five years. I wonder if Rose knows about this asshole Charles. Maybe she can give me his address so I can beat his ass.

“Are his crepes as good as my pancakes?” Petty? Absolutely. But not as petty as asking her mother who has the bigger dick. Which I might. Just to hear her tell me something I already know.

“I like them both,” she answers, the little diplomat. “I like crepes with chocolate sauce and your pancakes with maple syrup.”

“Don’t forget the bacon. Can’t have pancakes without bacon.”

“Yucky!” She giggles, not yet one of the sweet/salty converts.

“So, what does your Mommy say about Charles.” I know, quizzing the kid isn’t cool. It’s not exactly healthy either, but here I am with a dozen other questions for her.

And a dozen more for her mother when she gets home.

Does it change how I feel about her? I guess that depends on her answers, though I already know it won’t make me want her less.

She shrugs. “Uncle Charles says Mommy is his friend wif benefits.”

“I’m not sure that’s the kind of thing Uncle Charles should be talking to you about.”

The little girl opens her mouth to speak, but another voice answers.

“Isn’t it?”

We both turn to where Fee stands in the doorway, wearing an enigmatic expression. Otherwise known as a shit-eating grin. One I suddenly want to make her pay for by putting her over my knee.

“Mommy!” Lulu shouts before beginning to climb over the back of the couch.

“Lu, please!” But her mother’s voice lacks the tone of chastisement as she lifts her over the back of the sectional. “How come you’re not in bed?” she asks as her daughter’s feet find the floor.

“Uncle Car said I could wait up.”

“Strange. I could’ve sworn I left Sophia in charge.”

I’ll say this: she looks neither annoyed nor disappointed to find me here. She kind of looks like the cat that got the cream.

“How was your date?” Lulu asks, throwing her arms around Fee’s waist. “Did you go anywhere nice? Did he bring you flowers? Did you kiss like this?” She begins to make smacking noises in the air as she pivots and begins running her hands up and down her forearms.

“Yeah, Mommy. Tell us how your date went.” Bringing my knee up onto the couch, I hook my elbow over the back of the sectional to face her.

“Hello, Carson.” Her gaze lowered, and her greeting suddenly cool. She drops her purse to the console before untying the belt of her coat. “What are you doing here?”

In the apartment I own, you mean? Oh, just hanging out. Making sure you’re not bringing anyone home.

“Watching Shrek. How about you? What have you been up to?” My gaze roams over her, almost as though looking for evidence. A tight, fine knit woollen dress that falls to her calves, black boots that disappear under the hem, and a pale blue scarf wrapped neatly around her neck. Her makeup is light but perfect, and she hasn’t a hair out of place in her usual (and as hot as fuck) high ponytail. I fucking love her hair. I love how she gasps when I twist the length of it in my fist. Love how it ripples like silk between my fingers.

What I don’t love is that she’s not wearing her glasses, inexplicably.

Ignoring the twist in my gut and the twitch of my cock, my eyes roam over her once more. It’s not as though I was expecting to find evidence of sexual congress in her appearance, not exactly, but the level of my relief at finding none is pretty ridiculous. And this Charles? Something tells me all is not how it seems.