Arm Candy
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CarlieChapter 2 free porn video
Still Bob’s turn:
So I’m sitting across the table from a sad young girl who doesn’t have a lot of options and her eyes are starting to get moist. Those eyes bored into me.
“What do I do, Bob?”
“You get people to help you who know things, who intend to HELP you, not exploit your situation.”
“Where do I find those people?”
“You’re sitting across from one. Those people you met across my fence are a couple more.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Why wouldn’t I? I can. You need it. Seems like the thing to do.”
“What if I’m some kind of psychopath?”
“What’s the chance of TWO psychopaths sitting at the same table in this restaurant?”
She broke a smile. “That’s a horrible joke. What if I was?”
“I’ll take a chance.”
“I could be, you know...”
Our waitress dropped the ticket on the table, took my credit card.
“When we leave here, “ I said, “I need to go talk with Art. Kinda fibbed to ‘em, ‘my niece’ and all that...”
“Yeah, but what do you tell ‘em then? I mean, you and me, we look like a poster for exploitation...”
“Carlie,” I told her, “the fact that we’re going to be open about your status, that we’re talking about helping you, that ought to temper their thinking. Art’s a pretty decent lawyer and his wife’s an actual saint. They’ll help.”
I signed the delivered ticket, adding a hefty tip. I keep coming back to this place. I know this waitress, and she’s good to me. Carlie eyed it.
“You’re generous.”
“Doesn’t hurt. Let’s go.”
A bit later, we pulled the SUV back into the carport underneath my house.
I picked up my phone. “Hey, Siri! Call Art Aucoin, mobile.”
A couple of rings and Art answered. “What’s up, bud?”
“Uh, you got a bit of time? I need to talk with you.”
“Your place or mine? I got beer.”
“I got beer, too, Art. How about you and Bekka come over here?”
“Be right over.”
“Okay.”
Carlie followed me into the kitchen. I put a block of cheese, then another, on a cheese board, dumped a stack of crackers.
“Cheese?” she asked.
“Yeah. Goes good with the beer.”
“What kind of cheese is that?”
“We’re doing England today. The orange one’s a cheddar, the splotchy one’s a Stilton.”
“I know what cheddar is. Never saw Stilton.”
“Just another blue cheese. The blotches are colonies of mold.”
“Yeachhh...”
“I love it. Art and Bekka do, too.”
Knock on the door.
“You wanna go let ‘em in?”
“Sure.” She took off as I was pouring beer into glasses to go with the cheese and crackers.
I heard her greet them, then I saw them as I made my way to the living room with the tray.
“Is that Stilton?” Bekka asked.
“Yep! Thought it’d go good with the beer. Have a seat.”
They got comfortable. I took a deep breath.
“Folks, I told you a lie this afternoon.”
“Huh?” Bekka blurted. “What about?”
“Carlie’s not a blood relative. She’s a girl in a tight spot. I pulled her out of one, but she’s in...”
“Bob’s trying to help me,” Carlie interrupted. “He’s not sure how to handle it.”
“What kind of trouble, dear?” Bekka asked.
Carlie related the same story she gave me, complete with the tears over her grandmother, and I noted that at least if she was lying, she was consistent with it.
“So let me get this straight – you’re basically on your own?” Art asked her.
“Yessir. Mom signed away parental rights. Gramma was doing the parenting. Now she’s gone. I tried with Mom again, but I can’t stay there – drugs ‘n’ stuff.”
“Well, m’dear, you’re old enough for us to get you emancipated. That’s an easy one. I can have a document signed by a judge tomorrow. But then what?”
“Sir, I need to find a place to stay and I need to get back in school. There’s no way I can support myself...”
“There’re programs, Carlie,” Bekka said gently. “We can work with you...”
“She will be in a bind for the short term,” I inserted.
“All we got’s a sofa,” Bekka said. I knew that. They have a cozy cabin, a retirement place whenever Art really retires. Now it’s a getaway, although he gets away for weeks at a time.
“Carlie, you’ve walked through the place. Second bedroom’s yours if you want it.” I had two, three if the occupant of the third one settled for a single cot and a little dresser.
“That’s an idea,” she said. “Aren’t you worried about how that looks, though?”
“Only people who’ll look are Art and Bekka, and they know why you’re here.”
I could tell she was thinking, so I continued. “You’ll have groceries, transportation, there’s a school bus coming by here at the end of the street...”
“Gosh, Bob. I have four dollars and one change of clothes.”
“One – there’s the laundry room. Two,” I reached in my pocket for my billfold, extracted a card. “Here. This has a thousand bucks on it. Can you get what you need?”
She gasped. “I can’t pay that back.”
“Think kind thoughts about me. Now, I think that Bekka will be glad to provide transport for you to do a shopping trip. Right, Bekka?”
“I certainly will. If you don’t mind going shopping with an old lady.”
“Me ‘n’ Art’ll go fishing, then.”
“Can’t,” Art said. “Gotta get Carlie’s paperwork done. Carlie, I do hope you have birth certificate, driver’s license, social security card...”
“I do. In my backpack.”
“You and Bob come over for breakfast at 7:30 tomorrow and give me that stuff, and we’ll get this all started.”
Art and Bekka left us to our own devices.
“What do you have to sleep in?” I asked.
“Got an old nightshirt,” she said. “Where can I bathe?”
“Hall bathroom’s yours. Uh ... let me get you some shampoo. Probably not what you want, but it’s all I got...”
“Bob, you’re being too nice to me.”
“Am not,” I protested. “Just trying to make you comfortable so you’ll be able to relax a bit. Gotta be a hard day for you...”
“Oh, gosh, it was ... has been ... is...”
“Quit worrying, Carlie. It’s taking an upward turn.”
She stepped up, gave me a hug. “Thank you for everything so far, Bob. At least you’re trying.”
“Everybody’s trying, Carlie. Take your shower.”
When I got out of my own, I donned pajamas, uncharacteristically for me. Usually I’m clad in my drawers until bedtime, but this is a concession to a perceived need for modesty. I went back into the living room, turned on the TV, started flipping channels.
Sounds from the hall bathroom went away and a Carlie with a towel around her head entered the room. Her old nightshirt was a big knit T-shirt hanging loose on her, down to her knees.
“I feel better,” she announced, flouncing onto the sofa, choosing the end next to my favorite recliner. “So this is what Bob does in the evenings?”
“Something stupid on TV, following the news on the Internet, then it’s...”
“Porn?”
“Oh, how stereotypical,” I said. “No, NOT porn...”
“Mom’s last boyfriend was kinda open with it. ‘Accidentally’ used to leave some on the screen so I’d ‘accidentally’ see it, like I was supposed to get uncontrollably aroused or something...”
“I don’t do that. I have a few friends – former co-workers – that I track on Facebook and a few forums. I check the news in a few places. I track what’s going on with international projects in case I feel like going to work.”
“You only work overseas?”
“That’s been my bread and butter.”
“How’s that work?”
“People know me. They know what I do. If they need that, I go to work.”
We talked a bit about living accommodations, the food, opportunities for exploring the local area.
“Some of the places I’ve been, you don’t want to go outside the security areas,” I said.
“I don’t think I’d like that,” she opined.
“I’m liking it less and less,” I said. “I saved a lot. Invested. I could just about be comfortable...”
“Must be nice.”
“It is. Has been. When Dad passed away, he left us this place and his regular house. My brother and I did a split. I got this, he got the house.”
“This is a house.”
“Well,” I said, “Dad and Mom had it as a fishing camp. It worked for me as a house because it stayed here idle while I was overseas. It’ll work for me now.”
“It’s cozy,” she observed.
“‘Cozy’? That’s a positive word. Negative word is ‘small’. Last lady I dated said that she’d never live in something this size again if she had a choice. Her apartment was this size, maybe a bit smaller – two bedrooms, one for her, one for her son, father unknown, and only SLIGHTLY over compensated...”
“Rotten, you mean...”
“Yeah, that too.”
“I wasn’t spoiled, Bob.”
“You don’t act spoiled.”
“Gramma loved me, she told me, but she said that love meant proper training.”
Commercial on TV. She stood up. “Show me your kitchen and laundry room.”
“C’mon,” I said. I showed her the place, opening cabinets, closets.
“And if you use something and the supply’s low, write it on this whiteboard so we can get more.”
“Organized,” she commented.
“Habit,” I replied.
“Usually when people talk about habits, they mean bad habits.”
“That’s true,” I said. “But habits can be good. Or neutral.”
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