Chapter 9: The Falling Out

The Discovery

Claire had just finished showering when her phone rang. She wrapped herself in a towel and answered, expecting Margaret's voice.  She’d slept through the day accidentally, and night had fallen.

"Mom?" It was Ethan, sounding agitated.

"Ethan? I thought you were still at Margaret's."

"I was," he explained hurriedly. "But I couldn't sleep after you left. I went back to watch the Roberts' house."

Claire closed her eyes, torn between frustration and understanding. "Ethan—"

"Nothing happened there," he continued. "They've sealed the place completely. But on my way back, I passed by Margaret's house, and there's something weird going on."

"What do you mean?" Claire felt a chill that had nothing to do with her damp skin.

"There are were people going in and out of her house.  Strangers." 

Claire's stomach dropped. "Where are you now?"

"Watching from Mrs. Peterson's azalea bushes. Mom, I think something bad is going on at Margaret's house."

"Stay put," Claire ordered, already moving toward her clothes. "I'm coming."

As she dressed quickly, Claire's mind raced through possibilities, each worse than the last. Had Evelyn discovered their plans? Was Margaret in danger? And if Margaret, with all her experience and weapons, couldn't protect herself...

She grabbed her keys and headed for the door, the failed rescue attempt from earlier feeling like a grim prelude to whatever was happening now.

As Claire hurried down Cedar Lane, she felt a sense of foreboding before she even reached Margaret's black house, the front door slightly ajar. The chrome skull doorknob seemed to leer at her as she pushed the door open.

"Margaret?" Her voice echoed through the dark entryway, but there was no answer. Instead, she heard a sound from upstairs; a rhythmic creaking, punctuated by loud thumps and moans. Claire's writer brain helpfully supplied several scenarios, each more dramatic than the last.

She pulled a large sword off the wall and climbed the staircase slowly, telling herself she was being paranoid. The sounds grew louder as she approached Margaret's bedroom. The door wasn't quite closed, a strip of warm light spilling onto the hallway floor.

As she pushed the door open, her heart skipped a beat. Margaret was facing the door, her face buried in the silk comforter and her ass up in the air, her hands cuffed to the foot of the bed. Behind her, a man was thrusting into her rapidly, his hips pounding against her.  Black anal beads emerged from her ass, with the final two in the chain resting on her tailbone.

Margaret lifted her head.  Her eyes were closed, her mouth open in a silent scream as she took the man's cock.

The sound of their fucking filled the room, the slapping of their skin, the creaking of the bed, and their heavy breathing. The man's hands were on Margaret's hips, guiding her movements as he fucked her from behind. Margaret's breasts were pressed against the bed, her nipples rubbing against the sheets as she moved.

The man was staring at Margaret’s ass.  Claire looked at his face.  He was older, late 50’s or early 60’s, with a distinguished look about him.  He was well muscled and gaunt.  He had a firm jaw and broad shoulders.  His hair must have once been black but was now mostly silver, which shot through the black in streaks.  It hung past his shoulders and gave him a vaguely hippie look that softened his patriarchal image.  He moved one of his hands to grasp the anal beads. 

“Do you want me to let you come?” He said, and pulled one of the beads out, slowly, while continuing to thrust into Margaret.

“Yes, fuck yes, daddy please let me come, I’ve been good,” Margaret moaned, pushing back into him, still not opening her eyes.

Claire couldn't help but feel a surge of arousal at the sight before her. She took a step closer, her eyes fixed on the man's cock as it slid in and out of Margaret's pussy. She could see the muscles in the man's thighs flexing as he thrust his hips to meet Margaret's downward motion.

Margaret's hands were cuffed to the bed, but she was still able to move her hips, grinding against the man's cock as he fucked her. 

Claire must have made some sound, because Margaret's eyes suddenly opened. Their eyes met, and for a moment, they just stared at each other. Margaret's expression showed only mild surprise, like Claire had caught her reading a book instead of fucking a stranger.

"Oh, hey," Margaret said, still moving her hips, her voice husky with desire. "Give us a minute?"  The man didn’t pause in his thrusting.

The man gave a friendly wave, as if this was a perfectly normal way to be introduced to someone. Claire stood frozen, her brain struggling to process the casual greeting, the stranger's hands on Margaret's waist, the way Margaret didn't even pause in her rhythmic movements.

"Or you could join us," Margaret added with a sly grin, her eyes glinting with excitement. "Thomas is very open-minded."

Thomas's eyes met Claire's, and she could see the desire in them, the invitation to join them. But Claire turned and fled down the stairs, Margaret's voice following her: "Claire, wait! At least let me finish—"

She didn't stay to hear the end of that sentence.

The Confrontation 

Claire dropped the sword and made it halfway down the stairs before anger overtook shock. She spun around, marching back up just as Margaret emerged from the bedroom, wrapping herself in a black silk robe that probably came from an Amazon search for "Slutty Seductive Goth Robe". The man followed, hastily pulling on jeans that looked worn in a way that suggested decades of use.

"Really?" Claire's voice cracked. "After everything?  The basement, the cult, the..." She gestured vaguely, words failing her. "The EVERYTHING?"

"Claire," Margaret said, tying her robe with infuriating calm. "This is Thomas. Thomas, Claire. Though given your entrance, I assume you caught most of the introduction already."

"Most of him, actually," Claire said flatly.

Thomas ran a hand through his silver-streaked hair, his weathered face carrying an expression of practiced neutrality. There was something in his eyes; a knowing look that suggested he'd seen this scene play out before. He moved with a deliberate grace that seemed at odds with the awkwardness of the situation.

"I should..." He gestured vaguely toward the stairs, pulling his flower-adorned ‘Don't Have a Cow, Man — Go Vegan!’ t-shirt on.

"Probably for the best," Margaret agreed, still maddeningly composed. "We'll finish our... conversation later."

"Oh, was that what you were doing? Having a conversation?" Claire eyed the leather handcuffs still dangling from Margaret's bedpost. "Must have been quite the discussion."

Thomas nodded, pulled on a worn leather jacket and headed downstairs. His footsteps made no sound on the wooden steps.

Silence filled the space he left, broken only by the distant sound of wind chimes.

"Don't give me that look," Margaret said finally. "You're married, remember?"

"That's different and you know it," Claire said. "David and I are separated. And you and I... I thought..." 

“And when, exactly, did you and David get separated?”

The Explanation

Claire crossed her arms, leaning against the hallway wall, ignoring Margaret’s challenge. "So what is this? Your usual Tuesday night entertainment?  Also… Thomas?  He’s an attractive older man, but I didn’t peg you for having daddy issues.  And that hippie aesthetic really clashes with the Tomb Raider slash Queen of the Damned thing you project."

"Actually," Margaret said, adjusting her robe, "I host Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous meetings here. Thomas is..." She paused. "An old friend. He stayed after to talk, and well..." She gestured vaguely at the bedroom.

"You host sex addiction meetings. In your sex dungeon." Claire's laugh held no humor. "That's like hosting AA meetings in a brewery."

"The basement is the sex dungeon. This is just my bedroom." Margaret's attempt at levity fell flat. "Look, I should have been clearer about... things. Thomas and I have history. When he stayed after the meeting—"

"One thing led to another?" Claire's voice was sharp. "Like how one thing led to another in the recreation center basement? Or was that just another meeting gone wild?"

Margaret's usual smirk faltered. "That was different. But, Claire, I'm pansexual. Or I’m whatever comes after pansexual.  In my line of work I’ve traveled the world, met new and interesting people and things, and fucked most of them.  I don't do the whole sexuality-in-a-box thing.  Or monogamy.  I did that, for years, with an asshole that didn’t deserve my time."  Her expression grew hard.  “I’ll never do that again.  I’m no one’s property.”

"No, you just do random guys after your addiction meetings."

"Would it be better if it was a random woman?" Margaret asked. "Because I'm getting the feeling this is less about Thomas and more about some assumptions you made about me."

"Assumptions?" Claire pushed off from the wall. "You're right. I assumed when someone kisses you in a cult basement, then fucks you multiple times, maybe they're not sleeping with other people!"

"Look who brought her power tools on the second date," Margaret said, then winced. "Sorry."

“I’M NOT EVEN A LESBIAN!” Claire screamed.  “There were a couple of times in college, and now you.  You know what? Keep your meetings. Keep your... Thomas. Keep your whole 'I don't do labels' speech. I'm done."

"Claire—"

But Claire was already moving toward the stairs, desperate to be anywhere else. Behind her, the wind chimes started playing what sounded like a Taylor Swift song.

The Truth Emerges

"Claire, wait." Margaret's voice stopped her at the top of the stairs. "You want the truth? Fine. I don't just host the meetings. I'm in them. Or I should be, anyway."

Claire turned slowly. Margaret had dropped her usual confident pose, shoulders sagging as she leaned against the wall.

"This is what I do… it’s my kink," Margaret continued, gesturing vaguely. "I take cases, I find people in crisis, in danger, and I..." She ran a hand through her disheveled hair. "I get off on it. The adrenaline, the fear, the way people open up when they think they might die. The trauma bonding. The dopamine hit..."

"So I'm just another case?" Claire's voice was barely a whisper. "Another victim to rescue and fuck?"

"You're different—"

"Don't." Claire held up a hand. "How many others have there been? How many desperate housewives with vampire problems? How many clients needed ‘comforting’ after their ghost encounter?”  She had a momentary thought that caused her brain to reset.  Wait a minute, have you actually fucked a werewolf?"

“That’s really not…” Margaret’s answer trailed off as she met Claire’s eyes; her silence speaking volumes.  

"The rec center basement," Claire said, realization dawning. "When we were trapped. You knew exactly what to say, how to..." Her voice cracked. "You've probably got it down to a science. The leather jacket, the mysterious past, the whole sexy vampire hunter routine."

"It's not a routine," Margaret protested weakly.

"Right. And Thomas? Let me guess: another traumatized client?"

“No, my history with Thomas is more complicated.  He’s kind of in my line of work, or adjacent to it, anyway.  More of a researcher than a do-er.  But we met on a case awhile back and kept in touch.  We work together, occasionally and sometimes…”

"Uuugh.  You’re the vampire here," Claire said, “an… an…emotional vampire!” and started down the stairs, repressing a sob, her own words echoing lamely in her ears.

The Aftermath

Claire walked into the night, Cedar Lane's synchronized porch lights casting strange red shadows across perfectly maintained lawns. The signs had been there all along: Margaret's casual mentions of past cases, the way she deflected personal questions with flirtation, how she never quite let anyone past her carefully constructed persona.  And maybe it was partially Claire’s fault.  Maybe she had read into a series of casual encounters something that wasn’t there.

The sound of Margaret's front door opening made Claire duck behind one of the neighbors’ meticulously trimmed hedges. Thomas emerged, shrugging on that oddly vintage leather jacket. Under the stark porch lights, there was something off about him, something she hadn't noticed in the heat of the moment.  He lit a joint and the smell of marijuana floated across the night air to Claire.

He moved with an unnaturally fluid grace, his feet barely seeming to touch the ground. But it was his shadow that caught her attention. It didn't quite match his movements, like there was a fraction of a second delay. As if his shadow knew something his body didn't.

Thomas paused at the corner, his head turning slightly toward her hiding spot. For just a moment, his eyes caught the light strangely and reflected back at Claire like cats’ eyes.   Claire felt a chill that had nothing to do with the evening air. Then he was gone, disappearing around the corner with impossible speed.

Claire stood frozen, her writer's mind racing.  She looked back at Margaret's house. Margaret stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the warm light inside, watching Thomas go. Whatever secrets Thomas held, Margaret seemed just as blind to them as she'd been to Claire's feelings.

Claire turned toward home, her footsteps echoing against the sidewalk. Thunder rumbled in the distance - because of course it would start raining now. The universe really was committed to its "woman walking alone after heartbreak" scene setting tonight.