The DILF (18+ Only) [COMPLETED]

7: In Which She Befuddles and Cuddles

7: In Which She Befuddles and Cuddles 

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Leland was outside, lovingly polishing the hood of the black Mercedes C-class he was obligated to drive. Startled out of his trance, he jumped when he heard the sound of my flip-flops beating into the concrete of the driveway as I approached him.  

"Miss Harding?" His voice was high-pitched and he reddened like a throbbing zit. "Are you going somewhere?"  

"If you ever stick your nose into my business again, I will make sure that Devin knows exactly which ignition his driver stuck his key into two nights ago."  

Better to get to the point, I thought, watching the blood drain from Leland's leathery face. I felt a fleeting - extremely fleeting - stab of remorse.  

After all, he had an ailing wife, I'd gleaned from Lydia, and he depended on this job for the outrageous pay to support her. "Sticking his key" in Natalya's vigorously used "ignition" was a sure-fire way to get himself sacked. Still, how could he cheat on a sick wife and look anyone in the eye? 

"Your business?" His voice was barely a squeak. 

"Yes, my business. Remember the pharmacy?" I automatically flushed at the memory of Bates' interrogation. What did purchasing mounds and mounds of those pills signify? Didn't it mean that I was anticipating a good lay with Devin? Didn't that make me overeager? Make me look like I was preparing for the inevitable? "Anyway," I snapped irritably, "if you ever feel the urge to report to your mistress, Bates, do me a favour and remember how mad Devin will be when he finds out about your filthy one-night stand with his ex." 

Leland hung his silvery head. 

"I'd like to go to town now," I said brightly, clapping my hands together. "If that's okay with you?" 

He threw the dirty rag onto the ground and pulled open the backseat door. "Where do you want to go?"

That night, after Lydia's spectacular chicken curry, I had to contend with a disappointed Ophelia climbing into my bed. Natalya had steadfastly ignored her daughter, choosing to assail the mall during the day and retreat to her bedroom at night. Ophelia was visibly hurt. This time, I didn't know what exactly to tell her. Devin himself had been as scarce as a four-leaf clover. 

Murmuring in her sleep, Fee rolled onto her stomach, her inky-black hair fanning out onto the pillow beneath her head. I pushed her hair out of her face, remembering that I should have braided it before she passed out. 

I carefully slid out of bed and got to my feet. Nothing was adding up in this house. The mystery was going to kill me if I didn't at least attempt to solve it. Google could only tell me so much. I just needed to clear my head - erase thoughts of smiting Natalya Kovalenko; thoughts of committing a crime far worse than fornication. I definitely had to get rid of any desire for Devin Shaw. That was proving to be nearly impossible to do. 

So, careful not to make a noise, I pulled my gown on and slipped my feet into my bedroom slippers. Glancing at Fee to make sure she was still out, I pulled open my bedroom door and slipped into the hallway. The house was eerily silent and, as I padded past Natalya's door, I couldn't help but remember the disgusting show she'd put on. Cocaine and a married geriatric? Didn't she have any shame?  

"I could kill this bitch," I murmured to myself as I went down the stairs. But then that would scar Ophelia for life and I'd surely go to prison where I would definitely get beaten to a pulp for speaking the way I did. I'd watched The Shawshank Redemption; I knew the score. 

The front door was ajar. That could only mean that a certain six-foot-something cat was out on the prowl outside. It hit me that he was probably an insomniac and creeping around the beach was the only way he could pass the time. A wave of pity engulfed me as I walked out and closed the door behind me; I quickly shook it away. My father never could catch a wink of sleep either, yet he had been the kindest, gentlest man I'd ever known. Lack of sleep didn't give a person a passport to be a dickhead.