Her Free Fairy
Chapter 1
Four weeks later…
From the kitchen window, Julie glanced out into the garden to see if the twins were all right. Her heart bounced in her chest at the sight of the empty space where they had been just a few seconds ago. She scanned the garden her brain rapidly switching mother–alert mode. Where are they? And more importantly, what could they be doing? She soon sighed with relief. They had abandoned their little cars on the grass, and were standing, staring at something further down the street. She followed their gaze and had to tilt her head forward to spot the house on the other side of the street, a few numbers further on.
In the alley facing their garage, the new neighbour and his son, a skinny teenager, were busy repairing a motorbike. The boy had his back to her, crouched down, dismantling with extra care some part of the engine. He was wearing jeans with holes and scuffs and, a black tank top that revealed graceful, slightly muscular arms. He straightened up and ran a hand through his dark hair in thought, exchanging a few words with his father as they examined the engine. His left arm was completely covered in a huge red and black tattoo. She shook her head in disapproval.
Who the Hell allows a teenager, obviously underage, to get a tattoo? Probably someone who’s covered in tattoos himself.
She looked up and down at the father, who was also dressed in a tank top and used jeans. They had moved in two or three weeks but she hadn’t seen him much. He was away most of the time, and given that she had never noticed any woman in the house, it seemed that the teenager was alone both night and day. She wasn’t in the habit of keeping an eye on the comings and goings of her neighbours, but the newcomer wasn’t going unnoticed in this quiet, conservative suburban neighbourhood of uptight Versailles. This man stood out from the suburban crowd with his long gray beard, his ears pierced from lobes to cartilage and the tattoos that seemed to cover every inch of his body. She laughed at the thought of her upper–middle–class, very bourgeois neighbourhood becoming a hotbed for gangs of bikers. She had noticed that the old lady just across the street would carefully close all the shutters whenever the neighbour was in sight. She glanced at her sons, who hadn’t moved and seemed fascinated by the sight of these strange new inhabitants. She called them, fearing they might cross the street to satisfy their curiosity. A motorbike was too much of a temptation for them.
– “Hugo, Clément come inside now.”
– “Look Mum, there a motoobike!” exclaimed Hugo.
She joined them and knelt down to their level. Gathering up the cars and trucks scattered across the grass, she lectured them.
– “When I say come inside, you come inside boys. I want you to play where I can see you and you’re not going to go on the street. It’s dangerous.”
– “Mum wait, they stat the motoobike”, implored Clément.
She smiled at their innocence and total lack of prejudice. At the age of three, they didn’t notice, nor care for their neighbours’ tattoos and piercings, since they only had eyes for the big, noisy motorbike. She sighed and rolled her eyes, what’s with boys and engines!
The boy across the street sat on the motorbike and leaned forward for something under the handlebars, talking to his father. Julie’s gaze lingered on his shapely thighs and firm ass. She bit her lips, blushing. Those pesky pregnancy hormones were awakening her libido at the sight of a kid, that was insane. The sound of the engine starting drew her out of reverie. The twins froze opening their mouths in awe. She got up, took them by the hand and led them inside.
– “Show’s over, get home. It’s bath time.”
They let themselves go, clinging to her arms, noisily imitating the purr of the motorcycle as she pulled them up the stairs.
– “Come on, guys, climb! Mummy’s tired of dragging you behind.”
– “Vrum vrum pok vrum vrum…”
She lifted them through the last step, reflecting that she soon won’t be able to carry their weight, and pushed them in the bathroom. She helped them undress, oblivious to their incessant chatter.
– “I gonna wride the bike”, declared Hugo.
– “Certainly not!” she retorted, raising an eyebrow.
– “Why?”
– “Because it’s not yours.”
– “But why?” She rolled her eyes, “here it is: the phase of the endless why–because!”
– “Because it’s the neighbour’s motorbike and he won’t let you.”
– “But why? If I ask?”
– “Because you’re too young to ride a bike.”
– “But why? Am good!”
– “Hugo, if you had such a beautiful motorbike, would you let it to a complete stranger to ride?”
He opened his mouth to reply but slammed it shut when he finally ran out of arguments. Julie sighed in relief, hopefully by tomorrow he’ll have forgotten about the bike and shift to another obsession. Hopefully…
* * *
Julie rummaged through the small bookcase looking for a bedtime story. She picked an illustrated fairy tales book that Eric’s mother had chosen for the twins last Christmas. She turned to them and smile fondly at the sight of Hugo climbing on his brother’s bed. They had to listen to the story while snuggling in each other’s arms, and each in turn climbed into the other’s bed. Typical of twins, always in competition and therefore extremely concerned with equality: everything in turn, each his share, always counting everything so as not to harm any of them. She sat on the bedside and opened the book.
– “Not that Mum, please!”
– “Tell about Murray the Boey Boggey!”
She put away the book of fairy tales and took a notebook and pen from the bedside table. The twins buried themselves the blanket and wait for the story, eyes shining with anticipation.
– “We haven’t yet decided what a Boey Boggey is, but we know for sure that they like honey. As sure as two and two make four, that stars shine with diamonds, and that little boys are ticklish on their feet.”
They immediately pull their feet out of the blanket to be tickled, squirming with laughter before she even touched them.
– “Murray being a very classical Boey Boggey was not exception to that rule. One morning, he roamed fields and meadows in search for the precious sweet honey. Oh, here come the bees!”
– “Oooh!”
– “They should have a song, don’t you think?”
– “Oh yes! Make one Mummy”
– “Mmm, let’s see... Bizz, bizz, bizz we are the bees. We’re…”
– “very busy”, said Hugo.
– “making honey”, completed Clément.
– “That’s good we have to keep that in mind! We don’t make a buzz once a year like this dumb Easter bunny, we’re just making very good honey every days of our lives!”
They chuckled. She closed the notebook and kiss them.
– “Now let’s dream about what could happen next to Murray. Go back to your bed, honey.”
Hugo run to his bed thinking out loud.
– “He’s going to get his nose stung for sure or his butt.”
– “That would a logical next step,” she grinned.
– “Mum, when Dad comin’?”
She closed her eyes in weariness; since he’d left, Eric had only come back once to take the twins for a few hours. He had compared their marriage to a good partnership, but she realized that wasn’t even the case. She was always the caring, nurturing parent, sacrificing her time and her own needs while he spent time with his sons when the mood struck him.
– “I don’t know when he’s going to come and see you, honey.” She had decided not to lie to them and not to entertain false hopes.
– “He don’t love us any more?”
– “No, Daddy loves you. He’s probably very busy.”
– “Like a bee?”
– “Yes. Right.”
More like an Easter Bunny Dad once a year, she thought but didn’t say one more word.
* * *
Entering the kitchen, Julie spotted the boys’ dirty plates and cutlery soaking in the sink. She should wash them up while she still had the energy. She would take the time to fix herself something to eat afterwards. She crouched down once again to look under the dishwasher for a leak but the floor was still dry. Even though the damn machine wouldn’t start and she couldn’t figure out what was the issue. She frowned, she had neither the time nor the money to call in a repairman. She should think about that during the week. With two kids and one more on the way, she couldn’t do without a fully functional dishwasher. Right now she had to eat and get back to her writing.
She looked at the kitchen table that served as her desk when she had free time to work on her projects. There, she had spread out her research and drafts scattered in several notebooks, a printed version of the story covered with handwritten notes and her second-hand laptop open to her future publisher’s e-mail. On the kitchen table was the solution to many of her problems. I she got this contract, she’d have the money to fix the dishwasher and deal with the unexpected without Eric’s help. On the kitchen table was the key to her independence, the hope of turning her passion for storytelling into an income–generating activity at home, according to her own schedule.
She suddenly straightened up and closed her eyes. It was happening again: Nausea with her best friend, Dizziness. When she was expecting the twins, she had suffered from morning sickness, but not so early in the pregnancy and not so intensely. This time nausea invaded her at any time of the day, for no reason, and was accompanied by such dizziness that she often had to hold on to something to stop the world spinning in all directions. She got up slowly, holding on to the sink, and opened the window to get some air. She stood for a while, slowly breathing in and out, waiting for the sickness to fade away. The rumble of the neighbour’s bike caught her attention.
The boy was returning home, a girl sitting behind him clinging to his back. Julie narrowed her eyes, “so he was old enough to have a motorcycle license. He looked too small and frail to be eighteen years old though.” He took off his helmet, ruffling his flattened hair, and helped his passenger down. She removed her helmet and he slid a hand through her curls, drawing her closer for a passionate kiss. Julie’s breath quickened, she whirled around and hold on the sink, panting. Now she was feeling both sick and aroused. Her hormones were playing tricks. She pulled herself together and glanced by the window as he guided his guest inside, holding her by the small of her back. Julie washed her face with cold water. She was overwhelmed with strange, unknown desire and craving. She had never imagined that it was humanly possible to desire someone so intensely at a distance, without any physical contact, without even knowing how he looked like. She had only seen the boy from a distance, usually from behind, without being able to distinguish his facial features with any precision. He was just a vague figure in her familiar landscape. But a figure that awakened new, intense sensations in her. The very sight of him made her shiver, a gentle warmth slowly invading her belly as she watched him move. She clutched the sink cabinet with her fingers, balancing herself. Images came back to her like compulsive flashbacks: his tousled hair, the black and red ink covering his arm, the shape of his arm with budding muscles…
Julie hid her head in her hands out of despair and shame. She was fantasizing about a teenager, a kid! And those damn pregnancy hormones were to be blamed. They were driving her crazy, completely crazy. She’d never felt that thrill, that heat of desire unless induced by some physical contact with Eric. Correction: she had never felt this thrill of desire with Eric, not with this intensity. Never ever. She closed her eyes in an attempt to try and banish the images of the boy but they grew back more vividly. Now she pictured herself in his arms, instead of that girl. She imagined how sweet the touch of her fingertips along his sleeve tattoo, the firm delicacy of his skin on young but virile muscles, the gentleness of his lips on hers. A sudden wetness invaded her crotch. She lowered her gaze, mouth opened with amazement; she had soaked her panties.
Oh my! I’ve just had an orgasm thinking about him. That’s insane!
She stretched her neck towards the neighbouring house. All was quiet, lights were off and the bike was parked in the closed garage. He drives motorcycle which means he has his license, which makes him at least eighteen, she reasoned and sighed in relief. At least he wasn’t a minor, which was a little reassuring as to the queer turn her libido was taking these days.