Free WIDOW by Billie Sue Mosiman Page A

up! Such a long drop! Such a terrible hazard to endure! What if he had fallen from his father's arms onto the parquet floor and busted open his skull? What if he had rolled from the cushions and fallen into the sharp glass corner of the end table?
    That father was irresponsible and unheeding of his son's safety. Finally, Kay took a deep breath and walked down the stairs one at a time, watching her step, keeping her eyes from the now-tousling father and son in their act of play. She moved past a sideboard where her fingers reached out and slid along a silver candelabra, on to the base of a thick-necked pottery vase painted with winding green vines. She paused, listening to the sounds behind her, the laughter and giggling, but there were possibilities those sounds could change to screams of slaughter. She wanted to yell, “DON'T TRUST HIM, ANDREW! HE MIGHT KILL YOU! HE'S SO BIG AND STRONG, HE MIGHT HURT YOU! RUN FROM HIM WHILE YOU HAVE THE CHANCE!”
    As she stood quietly, fingers brushing the vase, the father took up Andrew again and marched past her into the kitchen. In passing he said, “Hello, Kay, how are you today?” Then he said to his son, “Let's get a bowl of ice cream, whatta you say, champ? You won't tell Mom, will you?”
    Kay turned her back, whipping around so fast her black taffeta skirt swished against her thighs. She ran to the hall closet and grabbed her purse, snatched the maid's silly white hat from her hair, and was out the door on her way home without saying goodbye.
    She worked harder and harder at the health club. They told her she was going to pay, she was pushing too hard, too fast, but she didn't care. It felt good to have pain, to lose herself in it. At night she lay on top of the sheets and stared at the cracked ceiling overhead stippled with shadows from the streetlights. Her back and stomach hurt, her legs, and shoulders, her neck and arms. But she was looking good. Better than she had in ten years. No one would ever know she had been the mother of two children.
    No one would ever have guessed.
    ~*~
     
    Mitchell Samson walked into the Hot Spot at a quarter after ten on a Saturday night when the place was packed and jumping. He found an empty table close to the men's room. He ordered the Irish coffee and turned his attention to the stage. He'd never seen the place this lively. What the hell could be the new attraction? She must be a knockout.
    Not the girl on stage. That was Babycakes and the regulars knew her. Great and sexy, but no Jezebel.
    He scanned the room and gauged the temperature. It was pretty steamy, and rising. Guys were after the girls who served the tables. “Wanna go out with me after this joint closes? Want to make some money, honey? Want to make it with a real man?” All the old lines, all the old brush-offs. The dancers had to wait on the customers between gigs and they had their hands full tonight.
    He turned his gaze back to Babycakes who was winding up her dance. He hadn't noticed a new girl advertised on the posters in the glass cases outside the club. It had to be that, though. This place never pulled such a crowd, even on a Saturday night. Maybe she was so new they hadn't done any publicity photos yet. Could be.
    Interesting. Word had spread along the street fast. He was in here just the week before and it was deader than roadkill.
    Babycakes walked off stage with her tits swinging, her shoulders squared, and her G-string riding high. Mitchell admired her bravado in the face of whatever young woman had come along to draw the crowd. He put his hands together to clap for her loud and hard. The crowd joined in. Good. The girl deserved some appreciation, that was obvious.
    Could his favorite, Jezebel, have made it word-of-mouth and drawn this mob? Is that who was about to part the curtains and mesmerize them the way she had him? That rankled. She was his devotion. He didn't much want to share her.
    A new song by Prince came over the music system and the men took a