Touch Therapy Ch. 00

Author's Note: This is a sizeable chunk of text that, while I consider it erotic, could be categorized as "all foreplay, no fucking." If you're looking for a quick fix, you might want to look for chapter 1 of Touch Therapy, and then come back to this introduction if the story interests you.

*

Greg stood silently at the bus stop, waiting for number 114 to lurch around the corner, deliberately facing away from the bench and doing his best to pretend that Rachel didn't exist—wasn't sitting right behind him.

This had to be the worst damn year of his life. Losing Mom had been bad. Real bad. But this. . . he squashed that line of thought and concentrated on his breathing, on the tawny sweep of browned late summer leaves spattered across dusty asphalt, the heat distortions rippling over the roofs of neighborhood cars.

At least Elaine wasn't so bad, he thought. And Greg was happy his father had found someone to breathe some life back into him. In fact, Greg liked Elaine too. She was no wicked stepmother, and she made his father laugh, breaking the tension of two long, grim years that Greg had begun to believe were the new outlines of his life.

Short and buxom, with wild red hair, startling green eyes and a frequently sunburnt nose, Elaine was a software engineer. Perhaps that was why she insisted on so much free time outside, frequently dragging the whole family on daytrips to the ocean, or into the mountains for kayaking or camping.

And they were becoming a family, Greg thought. New, and a little shaky, but real. And it was Elaine that was making it happen, every day, with an unconscious, effortless grace. He'd hated her a little at first, but she had accepted it, and him, with a calm kindness that was irresistible.

A naturally 'touchy' person, she would randomly squeeze his shoulder in passing, pat down a cowlick, or, as he was working on his algebra at the kitchen table, she would kiss the top of his head, mumbling "hey there, kiddo" into his hair.

Greg knew this was at least partially because she felt a bit sorry for him. Pitied him a little. And should he mind? Didn't he deserve some sympathy? He couldn't think of her as his mother without feeling like he was betraying his real mom, but he was starting to think of her as a favorite aunt. The best aunt ever.

With quite possibly the bitchiest daughter ever. Rachel was nothing like her mother. Where her mother was loud, cheerful and sympathetic, Rachel was withdrawn, sullen, angry and judgmental. At nineteen, some of that might be residual teenage growing pains, but Rachel projected a ferocious disdain, exuding contempt for everything and everyone within range. Only her mother and her teachers were exempted from her wrath. So stuck up, Greg thought, that she'd drown in a heavy rain. And wouldn't that be a shame, he thought, smiling to himself.

"What?" said Rachel, from behind him.

Christ! Was the bitch psychic now? What gave him away? Somehow, she had detected the tension from the morning's incident falling away, and she had immediately challenged him, causing him to tense again. Greg saw the bus rounding the corner.

"Finally," he said, turning toward Rachel. "Look, I'll stay here until you're on, but I'm not riding with you today."

Rachel glared at him as she jammed her paperback into her bookbag. "That's not what you're supposed to do," she said, tightly. "You're supposed to stay with me until we're all the way to school. You're supposed to stay with me until I've got my books and I'm to my first class. Mom says I'm responsible for you, and I have to look out for you. You can't go by yourself."

Greg shook his head in disgust. "That's such bullshit." He took two steps away as the bus rumbled closer. "Technically, we're both adults, and I sure as hell don't need you to hold my hand. There's no way I'm sitting next to you today. Not a chance in hell. I'd rather walk."

Rachel paused for a second, considering. "Ok. It's only twelve blocks or so. I'll walk with you."

"Screw that. If I run, I could ditch you in seconds. I don't want to be anywhere near you right now, so you can believe you're getting on that bus by yourself."

"Think about it, hero," Rachel sneered. "What do you think your dad's going to do if he finds out you ditched me again?"

"Fine," Greg reluctantly conceded, as the bus thumped to a stop and the doors hissed open. "I'll get on the bus."

Rachel seemed to relax a bit as Greg got on the bus, and found an open seat for them, patiently waiting for her slip in first, so that he could take the aisle seat and she could take the window.

He was to sit with her, his father had explained to him, and if he couldn't find an open seat, he was to find one as close as possible, and sit where she could see him. Like a child, Greg thought. Fat chance I'll be able to get my license now. Fat chance I'll see any freedom until I get out of high school and out of the house. It was better when dad and I were on our own.

It seemed unbelievable to Greg that his father had so rapidly lost faith in him. For a long time, Robert had been a complete wreck. Greg had shopped, cooked and cleaned. He'd made sure his father's laundry was at least semi-presentable, and tied the recycling bags closed before he put them in the bins, so the neighbors wouldn't see just how many empty bottles of bourbon were in those bags. For almost a year and a half, Greg had been the adult in the house.

When Elaine had pulled his father out of his funk, and they'd first moved into her place, Greg had told himself that this could be a good thing. He hadn't minded not having his own room, and sleeping on the futon in the den. Rachel couldn't be expected to give up her room for him. And while the house was small, the back yard was large, with a garden and a swimming pool.

It was a fair trade, he'd thought. But the longer they'd stayed, the more rules there'd been for him to follow, the more restrictive those rules became, and the more and more they seemed to revolve around him being 'supervised' by Rachel.

And Rachel hated him. Greg knew it. He felt the icy waves of it, as clearly as he could feel a glow of warmth and sympathy from Elaine. For his father's sake he had tried to remain indifferent to it. He had even tried to be friendly, thinking that Rachel might lighten up a bit if he could get her talking.

But Rachel had made it clear that his presence was unwanted, and that she was only 'looking after him' because she was a dutiful daughter. She was always reading, and on the rare occasions when Greg managed to elicit genuine conversation, she unfailingly used the opportunity to articulate just how lumpen and stupid she found him.

It frustrated and infuriated him, then, that every attempt to disengage, to go his own way, to remove from her the colossal burden of "looking after him," was met with immovable resistance. Every time, she dug in her heels. Sometimes, she seemed downright panicky at the prospect. Always, she threatened to tell. And this morning, she had.

Greg's father was generally easy going, which Greg had always counted as a blessing. Robert was not tall, or imposing, but he was thick through the shoulders and forearms, and was frighteningly volatile on the rare occasions when he lost his temper. As he had this morning.

At the breakfast table, Rachel had bluntly revealed that Greg had ditched her the night before, abandoning her at the library so he could grab a burger and drop a few quarters at the arcade. She had stared at Greg across the table, her face impassive, as she had ratted him out, as if studying him for a reaction. Greg had been startled, and then enraged. As his father had begun to speak to him in quiet and serious tones, Greg had met Rachel's stony gaze across the table and blurted out, "you're such a bitch!"

Shocked silence was broken by a sudden blur of motion. Greg saw anger and profound disappointment in his father's eyes as the man's hand had suddenly shot across the table, his fingers locking around his son's face and jaw.

"Apologize," his father had hissed, giving Greg's jaw a terse shake. "Right now. Right fucking now."

Elaine had come out of her chair, horrified, and laid her hands gently on their shoulders, pushing the two of them slightly apart. "Robert," she had admonished, "Robert, let him go." She had turned to Greg, both sympathy and a hint of pain in her eyes, saying, "I'm sure he didn't mean it, right, Greg?"

"Yes," he had slurred, his lips mashed into his teeth by his father's iron grip, "yeah. I didn't mean it." He hadn't been able to move his head, but his eyes had slid to the right, meeting Rachel's shocked stare, as he gritted out, "I'm very sorry."

Rachel, he'd noticed, looked guilty as hell. Ashamed even. And as Greg had felt his father's grip loosen and fall away, he'd seen a significant glance pass between Robert and Elaine. There was something going on there. Some subtext that was escaping him.

Robert had turned back to his son, saying "Families take care of each other Greg. Rachel's looking after you because we asked her to, and it's pretty damn ungrateful of you to speak to her like that. We talked about this before. You may legally be an adult, but if you're living in our house, you live under our rules. If you have a problem with those rules, you take it up with me. You understand?"

Greg had dropped his eyes, red with impotent anger and frustration. "Yes sir," he'd husked out. "I understand. May I please be excused?"

He had bolted from the table without waiting for a response, not wanting his tears of anger and frustration to spill out in front of the rest of them. In the den, tidying the blankets on the couch where he slept, and packing his bags for school, he had heard Rachel go upstairs.

In the kitchen, he'd heard his father and Elaine speaking in low tones. Occasional snatches of conversation drifted to him as their voices rose.

. . . pretty fragile, but she's OK around him for some reason. She trusts him. . . pretty cruel. . . he's a tough kid, and it's only a matter of time before she. . . a little nicer. . . really unfair to him. . . doesn't understand. . . can't tell him without . . . privacy. . . hope things get better with time. . . she is getting better. . . big part of it. . . Dr. Griggs said . . . takes patience

Their voices had dropped off as Rachel had come back downstairs, and Greg had heard the clatter of dishes, and then louder, cheerful, slightly brittle conversation.

Rachel had walked past the kitchen to where he sat on the futon in the den, and stood stiffly in the threshold, holding her bookbag in front of her. Greg had stared at her, wishing, not for the first time, that the den had a door.

Rachel's black hair was cut short, but had a natural fluff to it that made it look almost downy. Her skin was very pale, and her eyes, very dark, were framed out by dark, arching brows and thick dark lashes. The darkness of her hair, and the paleness of her skin, made the almost purple cast of her full lips all the more striking. She had the delicacy and paleness of her mother, with a darkness that came from her father. She didn't wear makeup. She was slim, straight, small breasted, and wore understated clothing.

Greg remembered when they had first met. He had thought she was profoundly beautiful, like some animal glimpsed in the woods through morning fog. Now, Greg bitterly mused, Medusa might have been a more apt comparison.

Something must have shown in his expression, because Rachel's face had suddenly flushed with color, and she'd turned to the side, looking away. "I'm ready," she'd said stiffly. "I'll walk you to the bus now."

"Sure," Greg had said. "Sure."

/break/

Lunch was one of the few times in the day when Greg felt free. He could hang with his friends, as Rachel always spent lunch in the library, studying. Greg would sometimes try to study at lunchtime, but he could never quite manage it, as there was always some distraction. His grades in Algebra were ample demonstration that he was losing the battle. He finished scarfing down a tuna sandwich and an apple, squeezed his friend Jason's juice box so that it spritzed the front of Jason's letterman jacket, and then bolted for the breezeway while Jason wiped at the jacket with a napkin and swore loudly at his receding back.

Smiling and humming to himself, he walked into the breezeway, and headed for his locker. As he fiddled with the combination, he heard a muffled cry and a deeper, wheedling voice saying "oh, come on," from around the corner.

Greg took a few quick steps to his left, and looked down the next corridor's length of lockers. He saw Rachel. She was standing with her back against a rack of lockers, and Glen Keener was using one hand to push her back against the lockers, while his other hand was pulling her face toward his. "C'mon," he was mumbling, "just a kiss. That's all, then I promise I'll leave you alone."

Greg's father had told him never to fight. That it was wrong. That it was to be avoided at all costs. That it didn't make anyone a 'real man.' That it didn't solve anything. Then he had told his son that if he ever absolutely --had- to fight, that he should hit the other guy first -- as hard as he could. Greg didn't have much interest in football, but he wrestled varsity, and ran track.

He was moving pretty fast when he hit Keener, and it was a solid hit. Keener went down hard, his head bouncing sharply off the concrete, and when he staggered to his feet, he was clearly unsteady. When his eyes finally focused on Greg, standing over him, with his fists balled up, Keener left. Quickly.

"My hero." Dripping with sardonic contempt.

Greg almost stumbled under the disdain in Rachel's eyes as she straightened her blouse and skirt, and picked up her bag with trembling hands. Her face was flushed red.

"What?" she almost snarled at him. "Is this the point where the grateful bimbo drops to her knees and blows you?" she sneered.

"Wow. I mean, wow." Greg thrust his hands into his pockets and took a couple of steps back as Rachel glared at him, and continued to pat at her clothing. "Yeah, I can see how I was totally out of line there. Sorry about that. I hope I didn't hurt your boyfriend."

Rachel looked away for a second, her face still flushed, and her breath coming unevenly. Her hands were still shaking, and she gripped the straps of her bag tightly to try to still them. "I could have handled it myself," she said, more quietly. "It's not that I don't appreciate what you did, but don't start thinking I owe you anything."

Greg shook his head, suddenly weary of the constant back and forth with this girl.

"Look," he said, tiredly, "I don't know what your problem. . . " as Rachel's head suddenly snapped toward him, he amended his sentence. . . "I don't know what your problem with ME is, but whatever I did to piss you off so badly, I'm sorry, o.k.? Really. "

Greg gestured down the breezeway, to where Keener had disappeared. "Look, Keener's a total douche. He thinks he can get away with shit because his dad's a cop, but he's also a bit of a chickenshit. He needs to get his ass beat every once in a while. And you really should report this."

Greg watched Rachel carefully, as he continued "And I'm sure you could have handled it yourself. I didn't do it for you. He had it coming. You don't owe me anything."

It seemed the perfect combination of words. For once, Rachel seemed mollified. Her stony expression softened a bit as she looked at Greg, and she seemed to be making a difficult decision.

"Ok." She said, begrudgingly. "Ok. Thanks, then. I guess that's, Ok. But I really don't want to report this. It'll cause more trouble than it's worth." She studied Greg's face, saying "Let's not say anything to mom and Robert about this, ok?"

Greg shrugged and smiled, starting to relax a bit, and even feeling a bit of warmth toward Rachel. Maybe she wasn't so bad after all. "Sure," he said, "what are brothers for, right? It'll be our secret."

He knew instantly that he'd said something horribly wrong. Rachel's eyes widened, and she drove the heel of her right hand into his chest four or five times, shaking with anger and a kind of horrified indignation while she shouted "you are NOT my brother!" Then she rushed away down the breezeway, her head down, and a hand shading her eyes.

Christ, Greg thought, is she crying?

He gently prodded his chest where she had pounded him. She wasn't just evil, she was fucking crazy too. That's gonna leave a bruise, he thought, pulling down the neck of his shirt to take a peek inside. That's definitely gonna leave a bruise.

\break\

Neither of them said anything to their parents. They went about their daily routines with almost no words passing between them. But Greg felt that something was different. While Rachel wasn't speaking to him, she also wasn't saying horribly cutting things to him at every opportunity. It was as if she was calmer. Like she had vented some tiny ration of poison, and had somehow become more human.

Elaine felt it too, and Greg would sometimes catch her looking at the two of them as if she was doing some sort of mental calculation, her engineer's brain cells grinding together as she tried to predict multiple possible outcomes.

Robert had acted almost guilty for a few days after the breakfast incident, and Greg had been as conciliatory as possible. He still chafed under the restrictions placed on him, but consoled himself with the thought that, as a senior, he would graduate and head off to college in a year.

So they went on in their normal mode. To the bus together in the morning. Rachel to the library at lunch, and again after school, while Greg went to the weight room with Jason, and then home together on the late bus.

The only change in their routine was that Greg now paused by his locker at lunchtime, watching down the breezeway until he saw Rachel safely into the library. And once, as they were sitting together on the bus, Greg struggling with his algebra homework, Rachel casually reached over and penciled in an extra line, her tidy script instantly clarifying what he had been missing. He had looked up at her, stunned, and she had looked back, face impassive.

"Thanks," he had muttered, trying to figure out what was going on in her head. She had shrugged indifferently, and turned her head away, but he thought he had seen the corner of her lips twitch up in a slight smile.

What the hell? He didn't say anything, but for the first time since he had moved into the house, he wondered if things were actually going to be OK.

\break\

Friday was the same as always. Elaine came home from work early, and she and Robert got ready to go out and meet their friends. There was no late bus on Friday, and though the ride home was short, it was hot as hell.

Greg and Rachel walked back to the house from the bus stop, Greg occasionally pulling his shirt away from his chest with one hand and then letting it snap back, so a puff of air would cool him slightly.

Rachel looked sweaty and unhappy in her severe white blouse and grey wool skirt. She walked closer to Greg now than she had in the past, although she was still very quiet. Occasionally the back of her hand would brush against his as they walked. She didn't seem to mind, which Greg thought of as progress, as he could remember such casual contact in the past bringing a cold and immediate request that he 'please not touch.'

"Oh man," he said, as they got closer to the house, "I can't believe it's this hot in September. I can't wait to get in the pool."

Rachel glanced quickly sideways at him, saying "I was thinking I'd use the pool."

She drew out the "I'd", as if implying that the pool was only big enough for one of them, and Greg looked at her like she was crazy before dashing the last thirty feet to the door and throwing it open.