Clara giggled. “Don’t you like what you see?”
Evan opened a drawer and found a T-shirt.
“Yes, I do,” he said not looking at her. “But your sister is out in the living room.” A new fear pierced his heart. Something was definitely wrong with her. It didn’t make him want to run from her, but if he stayed, he knew he was powerless to help her.
“Put this on,” he said, handing her the T-shirt. He found a pair of flannel pajama bottoms in another drawer.
“Why don’t you kiss me,” she said tossing the T-shirt on the floor. The heat continued to stroke her, growing the sexual desire that curled and ached in her lower abdomen.
Evan patiently retrieved the T-shirt and placed it over her head. He helped her arms through and then pulled it down. She trapped his wrist with her fingers, and with a wicked grin, guided his hand in between her legs. He drew in a sharp breath at the feel of her slipperiness. She leaned in close, eyes looking up at him through long thick lashes. Her hair was tousled, and she looked like a brazen temptress. He wondered if she would bite him; he secretly hoped she would as he bent down to listen to her whisper in his ear.
“Finger me.”
Evan paused for a moment. He looked at Clara and then at the door. And then he ignored his conscience and backed her up against the wall, pushing apart her legs with his knee. He slipped a finger into her and listened to her moan softly. He remembered they weren’t alone and placed his other hand over Clara’s mouth. He stroked her softly, eliciting muffled cries, and watched her vacant eyes go wide when he slipped another finger into her. His fingers left her for a moment only to touch her again, somewhere different. A small place on her that ached and throbbed, and she could do nothing but moan into his hand and push herself against his rotating fingers.
He felt guilt and desire. She wasn’t well, and he was taking advantage of it. This wasn’t Clara with her back against the wall. This was some other person in Clara’s skin, moaning and trembling at the touch of his hand. He didn’t recognize her but was drawn to her lust, her aggressiveness. He thought she would make him crazy—this imposter—and his fingers stroked the depths of her once more searching for his Clara.
Her legs shook with the first wave of her orgasm. It was a crystal blue ocean wave, pushing up onto shore then receding only to push up onto shore once more. Over and over. Her hands gripped his shoulders as she rode the soft waves, pushing then receding, and she wondered if she would be trapped in the cycle forever, her body a prisoner to the sweet aching ripples. They never stopped, and he never took his hand away.
“Keep coming for me, Clara,” Evan coaxed into her ear, and she did. Over and over, soft whimpers from far away, and she was tired. Her body sagged against the wall. And then it jerked to life as she was forced to ride the wave in. And ride it out again. Sag. Jerk. Violent jerks. Up and down, in and out of her inner thighs and twisting around her heart until she let out a pitiful cry and collapsed on the floor from exhaustion.
He thought he did it. He drew out the bad, the ugliness in her mind that threatened to steal away the Clara he knew. He looked at her sprawled on the hardwoods, breathing deeply, purged of the imposter. His Clara had returned. He lay down beside her feeling the rush of relief, the first tingles of hope. She curled against him lazily, provocatively, her hand snaking down the front of his body to grip him hard. He jumped and looked at her.
“Your turn,” she said, her voice sultry and strange, and she moved her hand to unbuckle his belt.
Evan pushed her away and stood up.
“Who are you?” he asked dazed.
“I’m Ellen Greenwich,” she replied, lying stretched taut on the floor. “Who the hell are you?”
***
“Is she okay?” Beatrice asked. She sat with Evan on the couch eating popcorn, but she noticed that he wasn’t eating. He was distracted.
“She’ll be fine, Bea,” Evan said. “She’s just really tired.”
Beatrice sighed. “She was fine yesterday,” she said quietly.
“And she’ll be fine tomorrow,” Evan assured her. “Everything’s okay.”
But he didn’t believe it. He did not know the woman in the back bedroom he tucked into bed. She reached for him hungrily, begged him to let her do it, and any boy would have obliged her. Any boy but him because his fear returned. The desire for her disappeared the minute she touched him. He didn’t know who she was, and he felt terror for the first time.
He kissed her forehead and turned out the light, and she promptly fell asleep. He went back to the living room where Beatrice was waiting for him, watching the movie but saying she would rewind it and start over. He said no, and went to pop them some popcorn.
“Who’s Ellen?” Evan asked after a time.
Beatrice looked at him, stunned. “My mother. Why?”
“Nothing,” Evan said. “Your sister just mentioned her is all.”
“Has she heard from her?” Beatrice asked hopefully.
“I don’t think so,” Evan replied. “And she would have told you, Bea.”
Beatrice nodded. “Evan?” she said softly.
“Hmmm?”
“This hasn’t been the best Friday night.”
Evan looked at the little blond girl sitting next to him. His heart ached for her, immediately yanking him out of his distracted state, and he grabbed the bowl of popcorn from her hands and tossed it on the coffee table.
“Your sister is sound asleep,” he said. “So let’s go down to the store and get some ice cream and candy and anything else you think will give us terrible stomachaches. What do you think?”
“I think that’s a splendid idea,” Beatrice replied. “Can we play games when we get back? I’ve decided I’m not really in the mood for a movie.”