About Tart and Soul

by Storm Grant
35 pages / 14700 words
Available file types - html. lit, pdf, prc, epub, Sony-optimized pdf

Ex-Marine Cam isn't sure what to do with himself when he comes back to his mom's place. Especially since his mom is the madam of a brothel called Tuesday's Child. He's desperate to pay his debt to her, too, which is how he meets Joshua, a grad student who needs money in the worst way.

Sample

Cam swam into consciousness one nauseating sense at a time. The reek of urine assailed him, competing with the acrid taste of stale vomit. He gagged, the taste of bile sour at the back of his throat. He cracked open one eye while hunting through hazy memories, trying to sort dreams from the merely surreal.

He lay on a cot of some sort, an old blanket over him. Naked beneath the blanket, Cam vaguely remembered being gassed, of ripping off his saturated clothes.

“Cameron Julius Fairchild, you’ve been arrested and are being held for questioning. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Cam expected the cell and the interrogation. The familiar voice of the interrogator, though, shocked him. He rubbed crusty residue from his eyes, blinking to clear his vision. An elegant woman stood outside his cell, her arms crossed over her Chanel suit jacket.

“Uh, hi, Mom?” Cam shuddered; a headache beat a rough tattoo behind his eyes.

“So, Cameron. You want to tell me what that perfume boy ever did to you?”

Cam forced himself to sit up, one hand on the mildewed wall for balance.

“Should I call a doctor?” she asked, smoothing her hair with one manicured hand.

Before Cam could answer, approaching footsteps drew her attention. She pressed a little closer to the bars of Cam’s cell as a guard passed by, escorting a manacled man in a bright orange jumpsuit.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” She smiled thinly at them.

“Evening, Ms Fairchild,” the guard responded.

“Evening. Grace,” the prisoner added.

Cam fell back on the cot, wincing as his head hit the pillow. He fingered the back of his head, realizing his headache stemmed not so much from his mother’s presence, but more likely from the baseball-sized lump behind his ear. Blood stained his fingers, and he wondered if he should take Grace up on her offer of a doctor.

He sat up again, slower this time. Draped across the bottom of the cot lay hospital scrubs in pale blue--baggy drawstring-type pants and a V-neck cotton T-shirt. Glad his clothing choices didn’t include an orange jumpsuit, Cam reached for the pants, at first trying to draw them on under the blanket. He raised his gaze to find his mother watching him.

“Do you mind?”

His mother looked simultaneously offended and amused. “Nothing I haven’t seen before, dear. A lot.” She didn’t move, so he waited. Eventually, she gestured dismissively and turned away.

He stood with his back to her, swaying a little with the head rush. His head throbbed, but he managed to yank the pants on. He struggled into the top, which, despite being “XL,” pulled taut across his pecs. He turned again to find her facing him. “Nice ass, Cameron,” she said. “You get that from me.”

His mother’s casual attitude toward nudity reminded Cam why he’d left home at sixteen to join the Marines.

He crossed the small cell to the sink where he rinsed his mouth, the rusty pipe flavor preferable to the bitter taste of bile. He checked himself out in the polished steel plate that served as a mirror. Of course Cam couldn’t see the back of his head, but that didn’t stop him from trying. He twisted his head, poking at the lump.

“Come here and let me see,” Grace ordered.

Obediently, he spun around, and immediately wished he’d moved slower since his stomach and brain kept spinning long after he stopped. He leaned against the bars, feeling warm fingers move slowly over his scalp. He closed his eyes and leaned into his mother’s touch, gentle and soothing until she pronounced him fine and knuckled him on the temple.

“Good thing you’re hard-headed. That you get from your father.” She wiped her fingers on a tissue. “You should grow your hair out a little now that you’re out of the navy.”

“Marine Corps, Mom.”

“Whatever. Khaki’s not your color. All wrong for your skin tones.” She pushed her hair back behind one ear, light winking off an impressive diamond stud. “Now then, your charges include three counts of assault and bodily harm, plus a hell of a lot of damage to Diggs Clothing Emporium.”

Cam stared at his bare feet. First a medical discharge from the Marines and now a mental breakdown in the middle of a department store. He shivered.

“But…” his mother continued. “I called Frederico Diggs, the controlling shareholder, and told him we’d counter-sue for…” She paused dramatically. Cam rolled his eyes, but that just made him dizzy again. “Assault with a deadly weapon. Perfume sprayers should ask before they spritz you.”

He’d had one of his weird allergic reactions, then. And they sometimes triggered his post-traumatic stress disorder. Cam hoped he hadn’t hurt anyone too badly.

“Anyway, I spoke to Freddie Diggs and he’s willing to drop the charges.” Grace gestured to someone outside the jail cell and a guard appeared, checked on Cam and disappeared again. A moment later the electronic locks clunked and the cell door opened.

Exiting the cell with relief, Cam faced his mother. “Thanks, Mom.” He leaned in to kiss her cheek. “I really owe you.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” Grace added. “You’re ordered to make restitution for the damage you did in the store. I’ve fronted Freddie the money, but you’d better work that pretty ass off to reimburse me. Grace Fairchild is not a free ride!”

Cam groaned. Grace winked at him, linking her arm through his and guiding them toward the next locked door.

As they waited for it to open, she finished outlining the terms of his release. “You’ve been remanded into my custody on the condition you move in with me. We’ll stop by your motel for your luggage. Let’s go home.”

Home: warm and comfortable with mommy. That sounded nice.

Or it would have, if Grace’s home weren’t San Francisco’s premiere brothel.

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