Chloe and Cy Pt. 06




I lit a cigarette looking at the little red Mercedes. Finding a deserted street in Manhattan was impossible at just after 11 in the morning, but driving an hour out of town to Bayonne and parking in an abandoned warehouse parking lot off Constable Hook…

I exhaled a plume of smoke.

Keys in the ignition. Driver’s side door open. The door ajar alarm sounded rhythmically.

My phone buzzed. I took it out and accepted the call.

“Is it handled?”

He’d been shaken when I’d left him. It was a side of him even I had never seen.

“You’re panicking,” I said.

“And you’re smoking, aren’t you?”

I ashed my cigarette. “If she’s found, she’ll be a body in the trunk of a stolen car,” I said. “No links back to you. I’ve scrubbed the hotel footage.”

“Who vetted her? How the hell did she clear security?”

I sucked at my cigarette, savoring the flavor. “Booth,” I exhaled. “Told you to fire him when I hired on, didn’t I?”

“Fine, can his ass.”

I dropped the cigarette and ground it out with the heel of my boot. “I love you, too, Dad.”

“Stow the tude, Daughter dearest. You have her tablet. Tie up all the loose ends.”

He rang off.

I bent down and picked up my smoldering butt. I turned and walked casually away from the car. In three blocks, I’d catch an Uber outside a local coffee house. A jet was waiting at Newark Airport. Destination: Boston, MA.

I took out the tablet and opened the cache of photos. I took in the smiling face of my baby half-sister: green eyes, a long braid of carrot-orange hair, perfect teeth.

I swiped through the images, coming to one of a tall, muscular, dark-haired man in a policeman’s uniform shirt and blue jeans. The bit of stubble, the mirrored sunglasses, posing on a motorcycle with his smiling wife and pre-teenaged step-daughter hugging in close. Bit of a lens flare…

Happy families…

I ditched my cigarette butt a block away in a storm drain.

“The apparition of these faces in the crowd,” I thought, stopping at the walk-up window of the Cafe and ordering a tall double-shot nonfat latte.

I paid with cash as my Uber pulled to the curb. I slid into the cramped backseat of the little Chevy Cruze, killing the tablet and tucking it into the little travel bag.

“Christine?” The driver asked. “Newark Airport, right?”

I nodded. “Yes,” I said, taking out a five-dollar bill. “Do you have any chocolate?”

The driver reached down and brought up a basket with bottled water and assorted Godiva.

I passed him the bill and took two of the special dark and a bottle of water.

“Headed home for the fourth?” He asked, putting the car in gear.

“Visiting family,” I said.

“Always fun setting off fireworks, isn’t it?”

I unwrapped one of the chocolates and took a small bite, chewing as I watched out the window. “Isn’t it…?”


We had sat together on the kitchen floor for about five minutes, my head against his shoulder as we both contemplated what we had just done to one another.

“That was…” I began.

“Yeah,” he managed.

“Definitely felt different with this thing inside me.”

He nodded. “That’s sort of the point. Just keep it inserted for a while to get your muscles used to the sensation.”

I stood up and made a show of wiggling. “How long a while?” I asked.

He accepted my hand up from the floor and managed to pull up his jeans. He grabbed the package of cover-alls off the counter and tossed them at me. “Long enough to be useful to me in the garage.”

He moved to the laundry room, and I followed, untying my dress.

“You know, you leave a lot to be desired in the afterglow department,” I said.

He shot me a stern glance I knew well. Don’t push it, kid.

I ignored the look and shrugged out of my now rumpled dress, i was still handcuffed, so it just hung off my shoulders. He took out the key and unlocked one wrist. I took off tge dress and threw it at his head. “I woke up alone this morning. You ran away last night. Now you’re cornered.”

He pulled my dress off his head and then, after examining it, hung it up.

“We got cum on that,” I said.

“It’s dry-clean only,” he countered.

“Well fuck, so am I at this point! It’s not like it would kill you to…to….”

“To what?” he asked. “Be intimate? What do couples usually talk about after sex? They exchange little tidbits about themselves, their likes and dislikes, interesting stories about their backgrounds, their families. Getting to know each other. Right?”

I crossed my arms, suddenly realizing what he was getting at. “Well, I just mean…”

His badge and gun were still on his belt. He unclipped both and set them aside. He took off his shirt. “So, where’d you grow up? What are your parents like? You don’t have an allergy to penicillin by any chance?”

I saw red. I charged at him and slugged him hard in his bare chest.


“You know that’s not what I meant.”

He shook his head. “Well, I can’t just pretend this whole situation trabzon escort is normal, can I?

“I’m not asking you to. But we’ve done it, Cy,” I said. “Three times, now. It might have been a fluke or a bad mistake or wild hormones the first time, but….” I turned and waved my wrist with the one still locked wrist at the kitchen. “After two people do THAT, they’re supposed to….”

His fist pounded the lid of the washer so hard I was surprised it didn’t dent. I stepped back and stood silent.

“Sorry,” he said.

“No. I’m sorry I hit you,” I said.

“I’m not angry at you,” he said. He unclenched his fist, shaking his head. I watched as he seemed to look everywhere but directly at me.

“But you run away.”

“I’m not running from you. It’s knowing that whatever this is, it will have to end.”

“You can’t know that for certain,” I said.

He shook his head. “End in tears,” he sighed. “Much as neither of us might want it to.”

“But it’s so–“

“–intense,” he said.

“At least look at me when you’re telling me there’s no hope,” I said.

He glanced at me, and a soft laugh chuffed out from his lips. “Well, that makes it worse. Just look at the state you’re in?”

I looked down. I was still in the handcuffs. My new panties were a mess. My stockings had come loose from the garter. I ached from our most recent fuck. The little plug was still in my ass, and I could feel a bit of his cum drying on the side of my face.

I nodded, going back to the kitchen and turning on the hot water. I washed my face with dish soap and then swished a few mouthfuls of hot water.

When I stood up, he was there with a fresh towel.

I brought my cuffed wrist up… “You gonna make me wear this as a fashion statement t he rest of my vacation?”

He had the keys and unfastened the cuff. “There,” he said. “Free as a bird.”

I watched him look at the cuffs.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“No, I am. You’re right. The guilt shouldn’t keep us from being human towards each other.”

I reached my hand out to touch the back of his neck. “So, you got any kids?”

He laughed. “It’s complicated, actually.”

I nodded. “I hear you, man. I’ve got this whole weird thing going on with my step-dad. Awkward as fuck right now.”

“Come on,” he laughed, leading me back into the laundry room and shaking out the coveralls. He presented them and knelt at my feet.

“If I have to dress you like a little kid, I will,” he smiled.

“Help me off with my stockings, first, lover boy,” I said.

He looked up, tossing the white coveralls over his shoulder before reaching out to undo the few still-hooked clasps of the garter belt. He rolled down first my right stocking and then my left. I peeled off my satin panties and grabbed a simple pair of cotton ones from the folded laundry.

“Wonder Woman,” I smiled.


I ignored him, slipping off my garter-belt and ditching it atop the stockings he had laid out atop the dryer. I stepped into the coveralls as he held them. He kissed my hip just above my little rose tattoo before bringing the cover-alls up for me to put my arms through.

“So you like my little rose?” I asked.

He reached out and zipped my coveralls up to my chin. “Very much,” he smiled. “Keep it a secret.”

His big hands went around mine. His blue eyes stared deeply into mine for a full eight seconds before he looked down.

“Chlo, I…”

“Nope,” I said. “You’re not allowed to think about anything but a 426 Hemi engine for at least the rest of the afternoon.”

“Doctor’s orders?” He asked.

“If you let me grab my M-CAT manual from upstairs and we actually start studying,” I said.

He nodded. “Deal. Less buddying, more studying.”

“At least for a few hours,” I shrugged.

I ran upstairs to grab my study manual as he pulled on his own coveralls over his bare chest and blue jeans.

When I got back downstairs, I slipped on an old pair of all-star high-tops and joined him in the garage.

He’d popped the hood and was laying out the tools we’d need. With a glance, he pointed out the blu-tooth speaker.

“You can pick the tunes,” he said. “Vivaldi is supposed to make good study music.”

I nodded, heading to a stool by the workbench and turning to the last page I had dog-eared. “Play Dua Lipa,” I ordered.

“Talkin’ in my sleep at night, makin’ myself crazy… out of my mind, out of my mind…”

He considered the music and shrugged. His nonchalant way of admitting he liked something without saying so aloud.

I presented him with the booklet. “Here,” I said. “Quiz me.”

He set the book on the fender, fitting a socket to a ratchet extension. Be read a question with a glance and recited it back to me. “Many pets will run toward the kitchen when they hear the sound of a can opener opening a can of pet food. The sound of the can opener is A) conditioned response. B)unconditioned response. C) conditioned stimulus. D) unconditioned stimulus.”

“Conditioned Stimulus,” I said.

He trabzon escort bayan nodded. “Hand me that can of grease,” he said, pulling the carburetor.

I did as he asked.

“What would be the unconditioned stimulus?” He asked, opening the can and applying grease to the gaskets with his fingers.

“The food in the can,” I said.

It was actually kind of fun. The summer sunshine was streaming in through the open garage doors as he asked for various tools, and I passed them over. We made it through four or five practice quizzes. Occasionally his hands were too big to fit between the engine and the mounts, so I got to bend over the fender and dig down into the mechanics of the big shiny Hemi.

“Stop looking at my butt,” I said without looking back at him.

“Easier said than done,” he said, snapping an oil rag at me before handing it to me so I could wipe the grease off my hands.

After three hours, he sent me behind the wheel of the Roadrunner, both of our faces dirty with grease and grit. I depressed the gas and turned the key. The starter whirred as he sprayed something into the engine. Then boom! An eruption of power and the deep, hearty rumble blasting through a Carter four-barrel carburetor.

I jumped out and high-fived him. “It’s alive!”

He smirked. “And ready to drive,” he said, checking his watch. “She’s dusty. Let’s try taking her through the carwash down the street?”

“Let me put away my book,” I said, grabbing the study manual and running upstairs.

I ditched the book on my desk and rushed downstairs.

I stopped in the kitchen, eyeing the little brown bag on the counter. I smirked and reached in for the second larger toy. It was about the size of a lemon. I took it out of its packaging and popped it into the pocket of my coveralls. I also pocketed the little bottle of cotton candy-flavored lube.

It was official. I was an addict. Watching him work, the two of us growing more and more comfortable with each other, a mixture of the trust and friendship we’d always had coupled with the occasional moment of playfulness masking the knowledge that we were both on a hair-trigger.

I went out, hands in my pockets, to find him still tinkering with the engine. I moved to enter on the passenger side, but he stopped me, dropping the hood. “You’re driving,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

“If she dies, I can jump out and tinker.”

He didn’t have to tell me twice.

Round the car, I raced as he grabbed the remote garage door opener from off K.G. and slid into the passenger seat.

I backed out, and he shut the doors to the garage. I backed into the country lane and shifted into gear carefully.

“Don’t want to grind her gears in front of the mechanic, do I?”

“You do, and I’ll never forgive you,” he said, taking out his phone and an aux cable. The only thing not factory in the whole car was the stereo.

He started up some music with heavy guitar blues beats. “ZZ Top,” he smiled. “LA Grange.”

It was a short drive to Ramon’s Car Wash. I only managed to get up to second before we ran over the bell, and the attendants appeared, both of them whistling at the sight of us.

“Finally got her running, Chief?” Ramon himself said, coming out of his booth.

“I had my assistant here to help,” Cy smiled, passing Ramon two 20-dollar bills. “Deluxe Package, please.

“Half price,” Ramon smiled, passing one of the 20s back. “This cereza is a treat. Plus, you get the policeman’s discount!”

Ramon waved, and I drove forward, rolling up the window. We passed through two attendants who pre-treated the chrome and tires then gave the car a thorough sudsing before flagging us forward.

I put the car in neutral and kept my hands off the wheel as we were carried along into the spinning brooms.

I grabbed his phone. “Commandeering,” I announced.

“Hey, I like Garth Brooks.”

“Nothing wrong with him,” I shrugged. “He’s just wrong for the situation.” I scrolled.

He snatched the phone. “There’s only one song,” he said. “And they used to play the hell out of it at the roller rink when I was a kid.”

“The roller rink? Boy, does that date you.”

“From the year I was born,” he smiled, hitting play. “And don’t knock the roller rink. I was the king of old-school Donkey Kong.”

Rhythmic clapping started as he turned up the stereo volume. I instantly recognized the tune…

I laughed. “Okay, cheesy.”

A seventies disco-style orchestra joined in, and a woman encouraged “everyone to get up” and clap along before announcing:

“The Car Wash is open! You might not ever get rich, but let me tell you, it’s better than digging a ditch…”

He cranked the volume and sang along with the chorus. “At the car wash, talking about the car wash, yeah. Come on y’all, and sing it with me.”

He nudged my knee encouraging me to join in.

“Oh, no. I am not admitting to knowing the words to this one.”

I couldn’t help it. Despite being almost twice my age, he was acting all goofy escort trabzon and playful and boyishly charming. Fuck, his smile… I leaned over and put my hand through the forelock of his forehead.

“I want to kiss you,” I said.

He looked out the windshield. Foam and water and big boom washers obstructed our view of the attendants.

“They won’t see,” I sighed, taking my window. He didn’t stop me as I carefully climbed over the gear shift.

“I’ve never made out in a carwash,” he said, his fingers holding the back of my neck as we sucked on each other’s lips in the stolen moment.

“You smell like motor oil,” I giggled.

“So do you,” he said.

“Why does everything about you make me hot all of a sudden?”

He shook his head. “What’s in your pockets?”

I quickly slapped his hand away. “No!” I said.

“No?” he smiled.

I jumped back into the driver’s seat, zipping the front of my coveralls uptight. “Later,” I said.

We were passing through the hot wax and into the spot-free rinse. We could see the attendants waiting at the end of the tunnel. And if we could see them, they could see us.

We passed through the blowers, and I pulled the car to a stop in the late afternoon sunlight. Cy and I climbed out, letting the boys go at cleaning the interior with armorall and shammies. In under five minutes, it was glistening green with flawlessly shiny chrome. Ramon appeared with air fresheners and a polaroid camera.

“First picture with the Green Dream? Chica, up on the fender. Chief, put your arm around her.”

We accepted Ramon’s directions, and once we’d said “Cheese,” he took the photo and then a second. “One for the wall in my office,” he said.

He passed the first polaroid to Cy, who put it in the pocket of his coveralls.

“Let’s get the top down,” he said.

Cy hopped behind the wheel this time, and I slid into the passenger seat. We popped the clamps on the manual drop-top, and the attendants pushed it back and locked it in place for us.

“Now,” he said. “This has been a moment nine years in the making.”

He picked up his smartphone and scrolled to find a playlist, flashed a purely gleeful smile as he hit play.

A man howled through the stereo speakers. “You know I’m a roadrunner, honey… Beep! Beep!”

The heavy bass guitar thrummed to life as he shifted into gear and peeled out of the carwash parking lot headed towards the highway.

“Who is this?” I called over the rush of wind as he passed 35 mph.

“Bo Diddley,” he called over the stereo. “Now, hold on.”

We pulled onto the highway, and he put on more speed. Shifting with the skill of a stock car driver, pushing it up to 70. It purred like a dream, the wind flying through our hair. We passed a state trooper, and within seconds he’d pulled out behind us, lights coming on.

“Well, this is embarrassing,” I said.

He reached in his pocket and pulled out his badge, flashing it backward.

The lights went off, and the cruiser sped up, coming alongside us. A window rolled down. “Inaugural run?” The trooper called.

Cy gave a thumbs up.

“Let’s see what she can do!”

The trooper hit the gas on his cruiser and pulled ahead, flashing his lights and putting on the siren, clearing a path through the modest traffic.

“Isn’t this illegal?” I asked

“Highly,” Cy laughed, popping the glove compartment and pulling out a dashboard cop light. “Now we’re official! Let’s see if we can catch him.”

He shifted and slammed it into overdrive, quickly gaining ground on the State Cruiser with a hearty whine. The Statie ran his siren and lights so that traffic cleared for us, and I saw the speedometer peak at 123.

Cy waved, unable to catch the modern Dodge Charger, and slowed quickly to the proper speed.

“Maybe I should rethink this cop thing,” I joked, switching off the cop light on the dash and putting it back in the glove box.

He laughed, pulling off the highway and circling back toward home.

“Hey, wait a minute,” I said. “Stop at a gas station.”

He accepted, and we pulled into a Sinclair Station. “Come on,” I said.

“Where are we going?”

“Restroom,” I said. “We’re washing our hands. I just hope they have Gojo.”

He shook his head but climbed out, taking the opportunity to top off the gas tank with premium. I passed into the convenience store, holding up my hands to the attendant. She was an older woman who pointed me down the automotive aisle where I found a tub of the orange-smelling pumice-rich cleanser preferred by the dirtiest of the dirty.

Cy passed through, and I joined him at the counter.

“I left my wallet at home,” I said.

He unzipped his coveralls, giving both the attendant and me a healthy view of his bare chest as he fished his wallet out of his jeans. He paid for the Gojo, and I asked for the key to the bathroom.

“It’s out back,” the lady said.

I smirked. “Ladies first,” I called. “Buy me a Hershey bar, will you, dad?”

I pranced out and around the back. The bathroom was old but clean, and I washed my face and hands thoroughly before giving my reflection a devious smirk.

“It’s been a while,” I said, unzipping my coveralls and peeling them down. I checked the little metallic thing still snug in my ass. I heard a knock at the door and jumped, covering up before I opened the door…

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