Chapter Text
CJ Rackham hated painting. It was stupid, and boring, and smelled bad, and also he was bad at it.
He also hated wine. Wine was stupid. People say it tastes fruity, but unless it’s Boone’s Farm or something, it just tastes sour and leaves his mouth dry. Why the fuck do people drink stuff that tastes bad, barely has any alcohol in it, AND leaves you thirstier than when you started? Wine is dumb.
What he DOES like, though, is bitter, lonely, unsatisfied, wine-drunk MILFs. So every few months, when his usual wells have dried, CJ cleans himself up, trims the ‘stache, dresses nice but not too nice, and goes to a Paint ‘n Sip. Zeroes in on a likely lady and turns on the Rackham charm. He’s SO good at looking like a safe, one-night adventure for a neglected housewife.
Tonight it’s warm but not hot, nice weather, and the prosecco and cabernet and whatever-the-fuck is flowing generously. The “instructor” is a sideburned twink who’s drinking as much as the ladies are and cracking wise every few seconds. Most of the easels are taken up by what he’s sure is a bachelorette party, bleached blondes with frosted tips, big boobs, laughing loud and stupid.
But there’s a brunette in the corner who’s pinging his radar.
Cute thing, sweet face, small frame, decent rack. Wholesome. All buttoned up. She’s smiling absently, like she pasted the smile up on purpose and just left it there.
Even Jack can tell she’s doing better at the dumb little ‘windmill and flowers’ painting than the other attendees.
Eventually the instructor calls a ten-minute break, to piss and re-up wine glasses, and CJ drifts over to the brunette, who is painting through the break.
“That’s really good,” he says to her. “You should be leading this class.”
“Thanks,” she says, distant and distracted, before glancing up at him and - yep. Seeing him. Jack inhales so his chest stretches out, tilts his head, smiles down at her.
“I’m Jim,” he lies easily, putting a hand out for a shake, and her small palm is cool against his. “I was supposed to do this for my aunt, but she bailed, and I was already here, so…”
“I’m Mary,” she says. “It’s just me tonight. I come to these sometimes when I need time out of the house. They’re…low-stress.”
“Yeah, I bet they are,” he says, openly admiring. “We all look like finger-painting kindergarteners next to you. Turns out, I’m all thumbs at this stuff.”
“Oh, I’m sure you just need practice,” she says, consoling.
Still holding his hand. Nice.
“May be, ma’am, may be,” he says. “It’s just disheartening. ‘M usually much better with my hands.”
A pretty little flush rises over her cheekbones.
Half an hour of flirting later and they’re in the backseat of Jack’s car. Mary’s tweed skirt is hiked up around her hips, her sensible Keds and her sensible panties have vanished, and she’s grinding on Jack’s tongue like a champ, mewling and shaking over him. She tastes like heaven. The shocks under them are squeaking, the windows all fogged up except where her two little hands are pressed against the rear passenger side window for balance.
“Jim,” she says in a wrecked little voice. “Oh god, oh fuck - “
He stretches his arms up in front of her, under her blouse, to cradle her heavy breasts in his hands, thumbing at her tight nipples and pushing his face closer into her cunt. Slurping and sucking and fluttering until she comes with a squeal.
Fucking delicious.
Jack wraps his arms around her shaking body, lifts her, eases her down onto her back and lets her catch her breath while he squirms around to his knees over her. She’s flushed red all the way down her chest and smiling with her eyes closed.
“Hey, darlin’, look at me,” he coos, and when her eyes blink open he shows her the unopened condom from his pocket.
“Oh,” she says, all soft and trembling, and “Oh. Yes, please.”
“Polite,” he says, and starts opening his button fly, slow and even until her nimble, eager fingers take over.
He loves how her dainty hands make his dick look massive; her eyes go wide and she wriggles a little under him, pulling her knees up and apart. Damn, she’s ready.
When he slides into her, her tight heat, she gets loud. “Ohhhh fuck fuck fuck FUCK ME>! FUCK ME!”
He leans down to mouth at her neck and she fucking bites him. “Goddamn,” he swears, and reaches back to hike one of her knees over his hip, and starts pounding into her like it’s his job. Her neat, short-trimmed nails dig into his shoulders.
She’s a fucking wildcat. The car’s shaking like they’re in an earthquake.
God damn, he loves the buttoned-up brunettes.
He slips one hand between them, beneath, into the slick frothy mess of artificial lube and girl cum, getting his fingers wet, and then further down to tickle at her clenched asshole, and she jolts under him.
“Wh- what - “ she stutters, and he kisses her hard and pushes the tip of his index finger past her sphincter at the same time as his tongue slides into her mouth, and she comes again fucking instantly, humping up onto his cock and his probing finger, shaking. The way she clenches down on his cock does it for him, too, he shoves deeper into her and grunts and pretends there’s no condom, that he’s spurting directly into her belly, filling and tainting her.
Hot as the fucking sun.
There’s another car in this back lot, a few yards away from them. Jack hadn’t noticed it at all. He certainly hasn’t recognized it, because it’s a rental Eddie picked up just two hours ago.
Jack hasn’t noticed the tracker Eddie stuck beneath his car’s bumper, either, even though he’d done it three months ago.
He’s gotta keep an eye on his man, after all.
They’ve been an off-again, on-again thing since the late ‘90s; on when Jack is in town or between jobs or not in jail, off when Jack is doing his boundless-traveler schtick or off with another flavor of the month, or in jail. But he always finds his way back to Eddie, his Eddie-boy, and Ed always takes him in, no matter how long it’s been or how much they fight when he’s around or how broke Jack always is. And for the last while - the last year, really - it’s like things have finally come together for both of them. For real, forever. Jack’s barbacking at a place downtown and hasn’t gotten fired, he’s pulling in decent money and paying for some stuff, he’s taking Ed out to dinner and staying the whole night when they get back. Eddie even had a ring.
It’s good. Better than it’s ever been.
This, naturally, makes Ed paranoid as fuck.
The tracker iss stupid, and probably illegal, but -
But he can’t stand it, the not knowing. The every once in a while when he can’t get ahold of Jack, when his excuses come too easily. The nights he comes home smelling like perfume. Those things aren't new, but with their fragile dynamic that Jack seems so happy with, Ed can’t figure out why it’s still happening. It makes his brain itch.
So he’d put on the tracker one night while Jack was passed out and he’d been silently watching the little dot move around the city whenever Jack was gone and tonight it was just too fucking much, his brain buzzing and sparking and snapping, so he did the thing, and now he’s been here in the dark for some time, enough time to see Jack leading the chick out to his car. To watch them climb into the backseat, to see the windows fog and the car start rocking like there’s a minor earthquake. Their shadows moving together. The faint sound of her cries of pleasure.
Envy bubbles up from his gut like sick. All the things he gives Jack, he’d given Jack over the years -
Can’t give him tits and a cunt, though. Can’t give him a delicate frame and curves and sweetness -
So Eddie sits, stewing in his rage and shame, while his fiance’ fucks this random woman, while they clamber back out of the car and share a cigarette, while the woman - rumpled and smiling - lets Jack type away at her phone, presumably putting in his number. While she walks away.
Jack gets back in his car and drives away.
Eddie doesn’t follow him.
He follows the woman, instead - cherchez la femme - until she gets in a different car. A much nicer car.
Ed gets a picture of her license plate. He sends it to a friend, with a request.
Eddie can do anything, after all.
A few days later, Eddie’s got some information and some photographs, and he drives to a tall office building downtown, all glass and steel. There’s a big plaza in front with cold steel benches and polished concrete planters. Bonnet LTD, the sign in front says.
He parallel parks outside the building, with unconscious deftness, slotting in between a delivery truck and an Audi; and he waits, and he waits, and he waits. An hour passes; two. His stomach growls and is ignored. Eddie is a tireless predator.
At last, his prey appears, walking out the building’s revolving door, head down, steaming paper cup in one hand, briefcase in the other. He’s a blonde in a very nice suit and overcoat. He sits on one of the benches, at the far end of the plaza, and sips his coffee, and runs a hand through his excessively coiffed blond hair.
Eddie’s about to ruin his fucking day.
It’s not raining, but it’s grey and moist, overcast. Appropriate. Ed hops out of his car and nips across the road, all wired with the thing he’s about to do. He feels a little sorry for the guy, but not sorry enough to stop. It’s for the best, really.
“Stede Bonnet?” he asks, brisk, as he comes up behind the guy.
The guy turns when he hears his name, and aw, shit, he’s’ really cute. That’s unfortunate. Ed isn’t looking forward to seeing the crushed look in his eyes.
“Yes? Can I help you?” Bonnet says politely. Pretty eyes squinched up in confusion.
“Sort of,” Ed says. Hands in his pockets, rocking from foot to foot. “Your wife is fucking my husband.”