Jeff to the Rescue, Book 1 (2025)

Chapter 1: A House Divided​

A strip of bacon sizzles and pops, launching a dollop of grease from the pan. I yelp when the hot pellet singes my forearm.

Ow! Fuck!

Cooking usually calms me, but there’s no peace on this Sunday morning—even the goddamn bacon is mad at me.

Mad at me. That seems to be Dawn’s default mood these days. Damn it, I’m trying. I really am. I’ve sent out dozens of resumes in the four months since KoloTech announced the layoffs. Made endless phone calls. Joined all the job search sites. It’s the same story every time: Nobody’s hiring overeducated middle managers in the engineering field—especially not effeminate little shits like me who slink into rooms and exude zero confidence.

I lucked into the KoloTech job right after graduating because my college professor told the general manager I was one of the most brilliant students he’d ever had. But KoloTech’s GM and my old professor are both long dead, and it feels like I’ve got nobody left on my side, including the woman who vowed to love and honor me till death did we part, or her two daughters who refuse to call me “Dad.”

So, here I am, pushing forty and scrambling to come up with a plan before the unemployment checks dry up. Until I can figure something out, though, money’s tight—and my wife never lets me hear the end of it.

“Look, Lou, it’s like this,” she explained in our bedroom one night shortly after my layoff, in a tone that made her sound like a kindergarten teacher telling a pupil that two-plus-two doesn’t equal five. “I ain’t going back to being broke again—living in a trailer park, eating bologna sandwiches every goddamn night. I ain’t doing it. If I didn’t put up with Jeff not working, I damn sure ain’t gonna do it with you. The girls need stability, and if you ain’t bringing in money, what am I supposed to do? Sit here while you mope around, and end up in the goddamn poorhouse again, like I did with their father? I can tell you right now, Lou—that shit ain’t gonna happen.”

The threat was unspoken but clear: If I’m not bringing home the bacon, she has no reason to keep this little piggy around, since we both know she’s pretty enough to land some rich sucker if she wants to, even with the baggage of two bratty kids.

Throughout our relationship, Dawn has made no bones about the fact that she was head-over-heels in love with her biker ex-husband and the girls’ real dad, Jeff Cobb, although she dumped him because, according to her, he preferred hanging out with his motorcycle buds to taking care of his parental responsibilities. I’m not stupid—if Dawn left the guy she often describes to her daughters and friends as “the only man I’ll ever truly love,” she’ll surely divorce my skinny, sorry ass if I don’t start drawing a paycheck soon.

So, after she threw down the gauntlet in our bedroom that night, I begged, pleaded, and promised to find a job somehow. With an air of indignation, I also stood up for myself a bit, telling her that I hadn’t just been sitting around moping, but been searching high and low for work. I further argued that I still had a lot to offer her, even if I wasn’t making good money anymore.

That slight pushback awakened Dawn’s dark side like it always does, and she pounced in for the kill with razor-sharp claws. She lit a Salem, looked me up and down, and snorted smoke through her nose. “A lot to offer?” She scoffed. “Like what?” After a long, slow drag, she puffed a plume in my face. “You gonna sweep me off my feet with them skinny-ass little arms of yours, Lou? Get me all hot and bothered with them girly man-boobs? And we ain’t even gonna talk about your little thingy that don’t work.”

I admit I’m on the “girly” side—five-foot-six with a feminine, button nose, naturally curly eyelashes, and, yes, “moobs,” despite my skinny frame. But my “little thingy” works just fine, thank you. Not that Dawn cares; she cut me off after our debacle of a honeymoon, and the marriage remains unconsummated. Being a virgin, I was so apprehensive on our wedding night about the prospect of finally having sex that I wasn’t able to get hard. I spent the first evening of our Acapulco honeymoon curled up in bed sobbing, while Dawn lay next to me on the mattress, a million miles away, scowling at the ceiling fan, chain-smoking Salems. Finally, she claimed she “needed air” and left the hotel room in a snit. She didn’t come back until after two the next afternoon, and to this day I have no idea where she went, because I didn’t ask and she didn’t tell. All I know is, my bride wasn’t with me on our honeymoon night because I was a failure.

Still am, according to her.

The night after my initial honeymoon disaster, I was about to mount Dawn a second time, but my penis shriveled up before I got started. She sneered and shoved me away, telling me she wasn’t turned on by “little limp-dicks.” That destroyed my confidence and I haven’t tried fucking her since, meaning I’m still a virgin, although I’ve certainly spent a lot of time licking Dawn’s vagina. I’m not sure if that counts as sex, though. I guess you could say that I’m not a mouth-virgin, although actual intercourse is something I’ve resigned myself to never getting to experience.

So, the closest I come to having sex is when I go under the covers and lick Dawn’s pussy for an hour (sometimes two) while she smokes cigarettes and joints, eats Cheetos and binge-watches “Real Wives,” or some other trashy reality show that she talks about with her friends from the trailer park.

But even though I’m nothing but a tongue to her sexually, I sure wish she’d appreciate everything I do outside the bedroom to make her life easier. I don’t expect a goddamn parade, but a simple thank-you once in a while would be nice. No, I’m not raking in the big bucks anymore. And, yeah, I know she gets her physical satisfaction elsewhere because she isn’t interested in me sexually. But I do a lot for her, whether she wants to acknowledge it or not. I keep the house spotless and take care of all the cooking, even though Dawn doesn’t have a job. (“I shouldn’t have to work,” she’ll say. “That’s not the deal I signed up for in this relationship.”)

I dote on her two daughters, who were five and three when I married into the family nine years ago. I take them to soccer practice. Softball games. Wait in the minivan for hours while they shop with their friends. Pick up their dirty clothes. Clean their bedrooms. Put on my shoes and run to some restaurant or store whenever one of them gets a craving and Dawn okays it. “Mom, do you care if Lou goes to Dairy Queen?” is a usual request, and if my wife gives the go-ahead, no matter what I happen to be doing, I’ll drop everything and comply.

In return, the girls mimic their mother, ignoring me for the most part but making fun of me sometimes, and getting on my case if they aren’t happy about something I’ve done. They’ve never once called me dad, no matter how many dollhouses I’ve put together, swings I’ve pushed, or bake sales I’ve contributed to. Being from a broken family without a father around to raise me, I long for the girls to call me “Dad.” Just once I’d like to hear that word come out of their mouths. But it isn’t meant to be. Instead, it’s always “Lou”—as in, “Lou, my cleats still got mud on ‘em;” or, “Lou, this hot chocolate is cold.” If they’re feeling particularly mean, they’ll make fun of my “moobs,” or tease me when their mom goes on dates, something Dawn doesn’t keep a secret. Otherwise, the girls treat me like an appliance. Just like their mother. They’ve inherited her good looks, bad temper and haughty disdain for simps like me.

Frankly, it’s embarrassing to admit that my fourteen- and twelve-year-old stepdaughters hold more authority in our household than I do, but I’d be lying if I denied it. Throughout this marriage, I’ve been treated like a servant whose role is to make money, do what the females in the family tell me to do, take them where they want to go, cook, clean, and otherwise keep my mouth shut and stay out of their way. And, to be honest, despite my anguish over my lowly status and unrequited love for Dawn, this dysfunctional arrangement was working for everyone—until four months ago, when the assholes in KoloTech management blew everything up by offshoring my job to Bum-Fuck Egypt.

Last month, Dawn found me an under-the-table gig working as a stockboy six nights a week at a hardware store. The job paid cash, so I could continue drawing unemployment while earning extra money to try to keep my wife and her daughters in something approaching the lifestyle they’ve become accustomed to. The owner of the shop was one of Dawn’s lovers, although thankfully, he was never there, so I didn’t have to face him, which would’ve been mortifying. Still, it was bad enough showing up to work each evening and wondering if any of the other employees knew about the humiliating arrangement. I was glad when Dawn told me to quit last week; she didn’t say why, although I found out later it was because she’d had an argument with the guy and broke up with him.

“The fucking idiot thought he could own me,” Dawn told her lifelong friend Melissa during a phone conversation the night of the spat, which I overheard while polishing the mantle, just a few feet from where she was lounging on the couch, smoking and gabbing. She laughed at something her gal pal said and replied: “Girlfriend, you got that right — if Jeff couldn’t own me, nobody ever will. God, I miss that crazy, sexy sonofabitch.”

Jeff.

Jeff, Jeff, Jeff, Jeff.

Jeff, Jeff, Jeff, Jeff, motherfucking Jeff.

During the entire nine years I’ve been married to Dawn, I don’t think a day has gone by where she hasn’t mentioned the “crazy, sexy sonofabitch” five or ten times. She talks to her daughters about him like he was a goddamn rock star; a rugged, handsome outlaw who flouted the rules and got away with it. When she discusses her ex with me, it’s usually to disparagingly compare my manhood to his—or, more accurately, to tell me there is no comparison. Since my layoff, she’s also been using Jeff’s devil-may-care attitude to goad me into finding work, telling me she doesn’t want to be married to another man who won’t provide for her.

My problems seem overwhelming as I set the cooked bacon on a napkin to soak up the grease, finding solace in the routine of making breakfast for the family I love like a pathetic, abused cur.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^​

The air in the kitchen crackles as my wife storms into the room frowning. “Why is that goddamn bedroom window still open, Lou?” She huffs. “I told you to shut it; I woke up freezing.”

I gulp, not wanting to admit why I’m unable to comply with her wish, but knowing I have to come clean. “Um, it’s stuck and I can’t get it shut,” I confess. “I was gonna call someone.”

“Like we’ve got money for that?” she snaps as she strolls from the room with me trailing behind her with the coffee pot. She takes her place at the head of the dining room table and smirks. “It’s a window, Lou; don’t tell me you’re too wimpy to pull a goddamn window shut.”

“I tried pulling it down, I swear—it’s really stuck,” I plead as I fill her cup.

“Whatever; I’ll see if maybe Chuck can swing by and fix it,” she muses, sipping her coffee.

I nod, my throat tight, and retreat to the kitchen to finish cooking breakfast. I really wish she wouldn’t throw her lovers in my face like that—it’s the ultimate disrespect. Pfft. Like she gives a shit. She enjoys hurting me. That’s why she does it. She gets some kind of cruel kick out of watching me die inside, little by little. She knows how much I adore her, and uses my undying love to destroy my manhood, every chance she gets.

I’m no psychologist, but I know Dawn despised the drunken, perverted stepfather who raised her—and molested her—and I don’t have to be Sigmund fucking Freud to see that she’s taking her unresolved daddy issues out on me. And I put up with it like a sap, which is another diagnosis altogether. I’d say I’m lovesick, although I’m sure there’s a more clinical definition for doormats like me.

I overheard Dawn telling Melissa about this Chuck guy last week. He doesn’t appear to be one of her regular booty-calls; at least not yet. From what I could glean, he’s a roofer, although the one time I heard Dawn mention him prior to today, she talked more about his dick than his vocation.

The bacon and eggs are ready by the time Peyton and Eva rumble downstairs for Sunday breakfast. With a cautious smile, I carry the loaded platter from the kitchen to the dining room and go around the table doling out hearty helpings. Because money is scarce, I give myself just one slice of bacon and a small portion of eggs. Nobody notices my sacrifice. They wouldn’t be impressed if they did. That’s my job around here.

The mealtime conversation is mundane—Peyton hates her math teacher; Eva wants a new iPhone—but I’m left out of it. My opinions are not sought, and during the discussion nobody even glances my way, with the girls’ comments, suggestions, jokes and requests directed at their mom. During the half-hour or so of our family meal, I’m addressed a grand total of three times: Peyton needs a refill on her OJ, Eva reminds me to buy extra baking soda for her project that’s due for the upcoming Science Fair, and Dawn complains that I forgot to empty the trash bag when I washed her Jaguar yesterday.

Breakfast is officially over when Dawn rises from her seat at the head of the table and drifts upstairs to shower. The girls, by now immersed in their cellphones, straggle for a few minutes before heading to their rooms to relax, leaving a tableful of dishes for me to collect and wash.

The dishwasher is busted, but I don’t have the extra money to get it fixed, so I do the load by hand. The chore calms me. It’s a nice escape.

Chapter 2: The Return​

I’m sitting on the couch folding laundry and watching the Cubs-Pirates game when the growl of a motorcycle engine upsets the tranquility of the spring afternoon. I figure someone on our block either bought a new bike, or maybe a motorcyclist is visiting a neighbor, and I turn back to the ballgame.

Then comes a knock on the front door—seven sharp raps in quick succession. I peek out the window and gasp out loud. It’s him. Jeff. He’s grayer and more weathered than he is in the pictures, but he’s still the same ruggedly handsome asshole whose specter has loomed over my marriage from the start.

“Uh, can I help you?” I ask upon opening the door, playing dumb.

“I’m Jeff.” He looks at me as if he expects recognition, and when I continue my stone-faced act, he adds: “Peyton and Eva’s dad?”

“Oh, hey, um, come on in, Jeff,” I say in a wobbly voice, pretending I don’t know who he is. He takes me up on the invitation and strides across the threshold with long, deliberate steps, with a hip-swagger that oozes confidence.

“My girls around?” he asks, plopping on the couch before I have the chance to offer him a seat.

“Um, they’re upstairs in their rooms.” I lick my lips. “Just a sec; let me go get them … um, and, uh … D-Dawn.”

“Any chance you could grab me a beer first?” He tilts his head and looks me up and down. “Been on the road awhile; I’m thirsty as hell.”

“Um, no, I don’t drink beer—sorry” I reply, adding the apology to avoid sounding like a condescending teetotaler. “I can get you a glass of water if you want, though. Or coffee.”

“No beer? Seriously?” He shrugs. “Fuck it, I’ll take water, I guess.”

Replying with a nod because I fear my voice will betray my nervousness, I retreat to the kitchen. As I’m putting ice in a glass, I hear Dawn squeal from the next room.

“OMG, Jeff? Is that you? What the hell are you doing here?”

I hurry to fix the glass of ice water and dash into the living room, not wanting to leave Dawn alone with her ex for more than a few seconds. I blanch when I see my wife sit next to him on the couch. From across the room, I watch him put his hand on her thigh. She doesn’t move it.

“—just as beautiful as ever,” is the snippet of Jeff’s sentence that I’m able to pick up when I get within earshot. I offer the water; he snatches the glass from my grip without a thank-you and takes a long gulp. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he sets the half-empty glass on the end table and suppresses a burp.

“How the hell did you find us?” Dawn searches her ex-husband’s eyes. “Why are you here?”

“You weren’t that hard to find, girl.” Jeff smirks. “Remember who you’re talking to, baby—nobody could ever hide from Big Jeff Cobb. I can track anyone down.”

I bristle at Jeff calling my wife “baby,” although neither of them notices me shift my weight and sigh—my weak attempt at reminding them that I’m in the room.

Dawn frowns. “Seriously, what the fuck are you doing here, Jeff?” she asks a third time.

Jeff leans forward and takes my wife by both hands. “Baby, I’ve got big news. Huuuuuuge news. Guess which guy who you said would never amount to nothing is a millionaire now?”

“You?” Dawn scoffs and releases her ex’s grip. “Get the fuck outta here.”

“I’m serious.”

“Bullshit.”

Jeff grabs Dawn’s hands again and presses them to his chest. “No, this is real, baby. The state just settled my lawsuit—three million smackeroos.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Dawn’s eyes widen, and I can see her squeezing her ex’s palms. “Three million dollars? How in the hell did you swing that?”

Jeff lets go of Dawn’s hands. He’s obviously moving deliberately to build anticipation as he leans back on the couch, crosses his legs and lights a Marlboro. After blowing smoke at the ceiling, he spills the beans:

“Last year, a couple asshole state troopers stopped me coming home from the bar and said they smelled alcohol on my breath. They tried to cuff me; said I was resisting, and they start slamming my goddamn head against a brick wall. Some guy, college kid, filmed the whole thing on his phone. So, it was open-and-shut, and them assholes at the state folded like a house of cards. My lawyer got his cut—damn near a million bucks, the thieving cocksucker—but I still got about two mil in the bank. Two mil, baby. Want to see the new Harley I bought?”

“Don’t you want to see your daughters first?” Dawn asks in a deadpan voice, sliding the ashtray across the coffee table.

“Hell, yes, I want to see them.” Jeff stubs out his cigarette and grabs Dawn’s hands again. “Not only do I want to see them—I’m gonna start doing my part, and taking care of them. That’s why I’m here, baby. I want to step up.”

“Well, that’s nice to hear, because we sure could use the help right now,” Dawn says.

Jeff glances around our McMansion. “Don’t look like you’re doing too bad to me, baby.”

“Well, we weren’t—until numb-nuts here got laid off.” It’s the first time Dawn has mentioned me, and I stuff my hands in my pockets while staring at the carpet. “It’s been four months, and he can’t find a goddamn job. He’s fucking useless.”

“You’re the new husband, eh?” Jeff sizes me up with a leer. “Nice to meet ya.”

“Uh, nice to meet you, too.” The last word cracks.

Dawn grimaces, and I can tell she’s embarrassed by me. “Lou, go upstairs and tell the girls to come down—but don’t tell them their dad’s here. I want it to be a surprise.”

I nod and head toward the stairway. When I’m halfway up, I hear Jeff snigger. “He lets you treat him like that?”

I want to linger and hear Dawn’s reply, although I fear being caught eavesdropping, so I continue upstairs to tell the girls they’re wanted by their mother. Peyton, perturbed by my knock, snaps that she’ll be down in a minute. Eva demands to know why she’s being summoned, and I’m ****** to explain that it’s a surprise. She rolls out of bed and trots down the stairs, and I hover in the hallway, unsure if I should wait for Peyton or head down immediately. The decision is made for me when I hear Dawn yell, “Peyton, get down here!” and the eldest sibling exits her room and stomps past me in a huff.

I pause at the top of the stairwell, taking in the scene in the living room: Dawn and Jeff are now standing, and he looks nervous, shuffling his feet with his hands clenched together—a far cry from the arrogant alpha who barged into our home just a few minutes ago.

My wife smiles; I see tears in her eyes. “Girls, do you know who this is?”

Peyton scrunches her brow. “Dad?”

Jeff opens his arms, and both girls fall into the embrace. I notice tears in the rugged biker’s eyes, too. “OMG, it’s so good to see you two again … it’s a goddamn dream come true,” he says, injecting a cuss word into the tender moment.

Peyton pulls back, wipes her wet face and frowns. “Why did you leave us, Dad?”

I wince; in the past few seconds, Peyton has used the “D” word twice, and it feels like a kick to the gut.

“You father didn’t leave you,” Dawn explains with a sigh. “I left him. I’ve told you that a million times.”

“But you could’ve come and seen us.” Peyton blinks. “I barely remember you.”

“Why are you acting like this?” Dawn lights a smoke. “Don’t blame your father—I’m the one who told him not to come around until he was ready to start taking care of his family.”

“And why DIDN’T you take care of us?” Peyton presses, her jaw clenched.

Jeff places his hand on his oldest daughter’s shoulder. “Look, honey, I admit I was a fuck-up. All I wanted to do was ride with the Bandits and do stupid shit. I was immature; hell, I was a goddamn idiot sometimes. But I just came into some money—a couple million bucks, actually—and I’m older now, retired from the club, and I got to thinking about things, and the shit I want to do now that I’m a millionaire. Yeah, I could buy a goddamn yacht or something, and lay around on the beach, but that ain’t what I want to do with my life now. I’ve bummed around long enough. The worst thing I ever did was let you guys and your mom get away, and I apologize to all of you. I.am.sorry. Now that I’ve got the money to take care of you all, I want to make it right. I really do, honey.”

Peyton sobs and leans into her massive father for another hug. There isn’t a dry eye in the house. Dawn and the girls are overwhelmed with joy. I’m crying for another reason.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^​

I’m back at the stove, preheating the oven and chopping vegetables in preparation for an impromptu early Sunday dinner while Jeff holds court in the living room. From my vantage point in the open kitchen, I can see charm radiating from the bastard, and the starry gazes of Peyton, Eva, and, most painfully, Dawn.

Jeff tells a story about outrunning the cops on his bike, as his daughters squeal and bounce in their seats while Dawn leans back on the couch, puffing her cigarette with a calm, secret smile. Then come the magic tricks; Jeff makes a coin disappear before pulling it from behind Eva’s ear; then, he turns Peyton’s one-dollar bill into a fifty, and my wife and stepdaughters applaud.

Dawn hollers for me to refill her Diet Coke, and she asks Jeff if he’d like another one.

“I could use a brewski, to be honest,” Jeff replies, glancing at me with a smirk. We both know what’s about to happen.

Dawn nods, acknowledging her ex’s request. “Lou, before you get started on dinner, run to the store and grab a six-pack of …” She turns to Jeff. “You still drink Bud?”

“Nah, I’m celebrating—get some Heinies,” he tells me. “A case. And go ahead and get a fifth of Knob’s Creek—and get the good shit; the one-twenty proof.”

I feel humiliation wash over me. “Um, I … I don’t think there’s enough in the checking account for all that.”

Jeff shrugs, reaches in his wallet, and removes two hundred-dollar bills. “That ought to cover it—and keep the change.”

“Damn, thanks, Jeff,” Dawn says, squeezing her ex’s knee.

“I done told you, baby—I’m here to take care of things now.” Jeff gazes into my wife’s eyes. She returns the gaga stare.

Nobody notices as I slink out the front door.

Chapter 3: Shifting Ground​

I’m on my hands and knees pulling weeds from the flowerbed when the distant vroom of a motorcycle makes me cringe. Ugh. Please, God, no. Not him. Not today. I’m begging you—not today.

But the rumble gets louder, my teeth gnash harder—and, goddamn it, there he is, a nightmare cruising down Elm Street.

Hair flowing in the breeze because outlaws don’t wear helmets. Faded jeans. Weathered leather. Cool aviator shades. That sneer. Those shoulders.

I’m reeling—Dawn didn’t tell me her ex was coming over. Then again, she never loops me in on these things. Right now, she’s inside swilling Moscato with her bestie Melissa, and I wasn’t informed we’d be entertaining a guest who was staying for dinner until after the trashy MILF showed up a few hours ago with a half-empty bottle and a drunken smirk. Dawn said she was in the mood for steaks, so I was dispatched to the store earlier to buy five porterhouses and more wine. The first thing that runs through my mind as Jeff noses his bike up our driveway is that there won’t be enough food if he decides to stay and eat with us, too.

On second thought, there’ll be plenty to eat—I’ll just have to surrender my steak to the better man, that’s all. I pray he won’t be here long, but I know better. Maybe Dawn planned this, telling me to buy only five steaks so I wouldn’t get one. The way she treats me, especially since the layoff, I wouldn’t put it past her. Damn it, and I was looking forward to eating steak for the first time in ages, too. It’s a luxury we haven’t been able to afford since I lost my job—that is, until you-know-who showed up with his settlement money.

Peyton and Eva gambol from the house squealing, followed by Dawn and Melissa, both of whom stagger a bit from their wine buzz. The lanky biker opens his arms and his daughters scoot in for a three-way hug. Melissa is next, squeezing tight, kicking up one leg and gushing, “Damn, motherfucker, you’re still as sexy as you ever was!” Jeff thanks his ex-wife’s old friend from the trailer park, adding, “Hey, girl, you look like you could still curl a few toes yourself.”

Then, the handsome bastard turns to Dawn, removes his sunglasses and tucks them in his vest pocket like some movie star. They lock eyes and I can feel the sparks from the flowerbed, twenty yards away. My lips dry up, and I have to cover my mouth to keep a groan from escaping. Jeff hugs my wife for way too long, followed by a kiss that, from my vantage point, looks like it involves some quick tongue action. I grit my teeth and go back to pulling weeds. Nobody looks my way as the group files into the house.

Still on all fours, I crawl toward the living room window, pretending to search for weeds that don’t exist, hoping to hear what’s going on inside. As I get closer, I can’t quite make out words, but peals of feminine laughter stab my heart, reinforcing my status as a literal outsider.

My stomach is in a knot, and the inside of my mouth tastes like sawdust. Rubbing my eyes doesn’t blot out the image of Jeff inside, sprawled across my sofa, probably weaving yet another yarn that has his enthralled audience tittering with delight.

I remove my fists from my eyes and vision slowly returns. The first thing I see makes me flinch—Mrs. Traynor, our elderly neighbor, frowning at me with her head cocked to the side.

“Lou? Are you okay?”.

I put on a smile. “Yeah, just pulling weeds.”

She glances at the manicured grass, and I can read her mind: There are no weeds anywhere near me. But she politely changes the subject. “What a beautiful day, huh?”

“Oh, yeah. Nice day to get some gardening done.”

She nods at the Harley in the driveway. “Did you buy a new motorcycle, Lou?”

“Um, no … we have a couple friends over.”

“Ah, I didn’t think you were the motorcycle type.” She smiles and waves. “Well, I’ve still got a million things to do. Nice talking to you.”

“You too. See ya.”

Mrs. Traynor has taken only a few steps toward her house when Eva pokes her head out of our front door. “Dad says to bring in the stuff from his saddlebag, and then Mom wants you to get started on dinner, but she said make sure you wash up first—and hurry up, cuz I’m hungry,” she orders in her usual snotty tone before disappearing.

I peek over at my sixty-something neighbor; she’s fumbling with her key, and I can tell she’s pretending she didn’t overhear the brief, one-sided conversation that exposes my humiliating situation: My wife, her biker ex and their kids are visiting inside while I’m out here in the grass on my hands and knees, being ordered by a twelve-year-old to “hurry up” and go cook for them.

With my head hung low, I plod into the house lugging the three packages I found in the saddlebags on Jeff’s Harley. Sure enough, the asshole is kicked back on the couch, flanked by Dawn and Melissa, while the girls have pulled the two easy chairs closer to the sofa to be closer to their dad.

“There’s the big guy,” Jeff calls when I shuffle into view. The amused condescension in his voice is obvious. Big guy, right. I’m five-foot-fucking-six. He nods at the bags in my arms. “Bring those over here, huh?” I bristle. It’s not quite an order, but not really a request, either.

I edge across the room and hand him the three bags; he pulls out two iPhone Pros—the most expensive model—and hands them to his verklempt daughters. “Last time I was here, I noticed your phones looked a little ragged; thought you could use new ones,” he says.

The girls are still thanking their father when he reaches in the second bag and removes a pair of large boxes. He explains that inside are custom-made neon signs of their names, Peyton and Eva, to hang on their bedroom walls. Next, Jeff hands each daughter a five-hundred-dollar gift card.

Dawn touches her ex’s hand. “Jeff … my God. You don’t have to do all this.”

“Sure, I do, baby,” Jeff replies, holding my wife’s palm and rubbing his thumb over it. “I told you: I’m here to take care of our daughters. I’m in it for the long haul.”

Our daughters. The long haul. The words give me heartburn, but I play it off, trying to remain invisible as I retrieve a folding chair from the foyer closet, since the two easy chairs and the couch are occupied.

Just as I’m about to sit down, Dawn scowls and shakes her head. “What are you doing, Lou? Didn’t Eva tell you to start dinner?”

“Yeah, Lou— and I told you to hurry up: I’m STARVING,” Eva adds with a huff.

“Oh, right, I forgot, sorry,” I mutter. My ears burn as I refold the chair and slip it back in the closet.

After washing up, I retreat to the kitchen and pull the steaks from the fridge. It once again occurs to me that there won’t be enough for everyone, and I rack my brain trying to think of a way to broach the subject. My ruminating is interrupted when I see Jeff reach in the bag again and remove a small box, which he hands to my wife. “This one’s for you, baby,” he says, making my skin crawl.

Dawn glances at Melissa before opening the package and gasping. She pulls out a diamond tennis bracelet, which bedazzles the females in the room, who ooh, ahh and giggle. My wife slips the expensive gift onto her left wrist—a few inches from the wedding ring I put on her finger nine years ago.

“OMG, Jeff, it’s beautiful,” Dawn holds up her arm and lets the light reflect off the precious stones as the others scoot forward for a closer look. “How much did this cost you?”

“Don’t worry about that, baby,” Jeff says, leaning back and draping his arm over her shoulder. “You always said you wanted a diamond tennis bracelet—now, you got one.”

Melissa sips her wine and giggles. “Damn, Jeff, that’s quite a gift,” she slurs. “Do you think her husband might have a problem with it?”

I’m hunched over the stove looking down, scrutinizing the label on the ketchup bottle, but in my peripheral vision I can see everyone turn my way. Although I maintain a poker face, I’m pissed at my wife’s best friend—the trashy lush is always trying to start something.

“Hey, Lou, come in here a sec, would ya?” Jeff calls, and I glance up like I haven’t been paying attention.

“Huh?” I wipe my hands on my pantlegs.

“He said get in here,” Dawn repeats in her perturbed voice.

I exhale, quietly enough to hide my annoyance, and shamble to the living room.

Jeff holds up Dawn’s wrist to show me her bracelet. “You don’t have a problem with me giving this to ol’ girl, do you, Lou? She’s always wanted one.”

“Um … of course I don’t mind,” I lie. “I appreciate it, Jeff. That’s … um, awful nice of you.”

“Why didn’t YOU get Mom a bracelet like that when you had a job?” Eva demands.

I want to scream, and tell the little brat that I’ve spent thousands of dollars on jewelry for her high-maintenance mother over the years. Instead, I bite my lip and blink twice. “Well, honey, I didn’t … um, your mom never told me she wanted one.”

Dawn sighs. “Yeah, the tennis bracelet was more a thing between your father and me,” she tells Eva. “We were young, and dirt-poor, and we’d lay out on the roof of our building, looking at the stars and talking about all the things we wished we had.”

“We weren’t supposed to go up on the roof,” Jeff adds, glancing at Dawn with an impish grin. “Remember Old Man Cratchit?”

My wife giggles and slaps Jeff’s arm. “OMG, I haven’t thought about him in YEARS.”

“Who’s Old Man Cratchit?” Eva scrunches her brow.

“He was the building super,” Dawn explains.

“Big fat fuck,” Jeff snorts, touching my wife’s thigh. “Remember when he fell through the skylight chasing us?”

“And you were trying to run with your pants down around your ankles!” Dawn says, smacking his thigh.

The former lovers crack up at the memory while I stand there with my fists balled, eating shit.

Peyton smiles at her parents. “You guys were really in love, huh?”

The question causes my eyes to well up, and I chomp my bottom lip again, so hard I taste blood. Dawn doesn’t notice like I wish she would. She doesn’t even turn my way.

“Yes, honey, your father and me had something special,” she answers her eldest daughter’s question. “Many years ago.”

“It wasn’t THAT long ago, baby,” Jeff interjects, rubbing Dawn’s shoulder.

Melissa grins at me. “Damn, Lou, you gonna let another man make a play for your wife like that?”

Jeff removes his hand from Dawn’s shoulder with a dramatic flourish. “Hey, look, I don’t want to cause no problems. Last thing I need is some jealous husband kicking my ass.”

Eva howls. “OMG, like that would ever happen!”

“Can you imagine Lou kicking DAD’S butt?” Peyton snickers.

“Aw, come on now, there ain’t gonna be no fighting here,” Jeff says. “Me and Louie’s friends—right, Louie?”

I nod, sighing with relief that he’s giving me a lifeline out of this humiliating discussion. “Right.” I shrug. “It’s all good, man.”

Dawn refills her wine goblet, the movement causing her new bracelet to clink gently against the glass. “Well, I’m glad you two are besties now—but that ain’t gonna get dinner cooked.” She looks at me and cocks her head toward the kitchen; I nod and shuffle away.

As I’m about to fire up the broiler, I’m once again faced with the five-steaks conundrum. I wonder whether I should bring it up now, or wait until the table is set. I decide to go for it and reenter the living room, where Jeff is talking about the two years that he spent in prison for stealing cars, and how he had to establish his rep when he first got there by kicking some big guy’s ass in the chow hall. I stand there with a fake smile, waiting for him to finish bragging.

“Um, are you staying for dinner, Jeff?” I finally ask when he’s done spinning his tale and answering the girls’ breathless questions.

“Yes, he’s staying for dinner,” Dawn answers for him.

“Um … but there’s only five steaks.”

“Well, that’s your fault, then, for not planning ahead,” my wife snaps.

I hold out my hands beseechingly. “But you never told me—”

“Just cook the damn steaks,” Dawn snarls, her eyes glassy from Moscato. “Nobody wants to hear you whine—and it’s rude to make Jeff feel guilty for staying to eat.”

Peyton’s nostrils flare. “Yeah, Lou, why are you making my dad feel bad about wanting to have dinner with us? This is only the second time we’ve seen him since we were real little kids.”

“I … I’m not … I didn’t …” There’s nothing else to say, except, “Sorry. I honestly didn’t mean it that way.”

“No problem, Louie.” Jeff leans back and smirks. “We’re all family here, right?”

“Um, right.”

Melissa makes eye contact with Dawn. They share a knowing giggle.

Chapter 4: The Descent​

It’s just before two on a warm afternoon and I’ve got the house to myself. Peyton and Eva are in school, Dawn’s out shopping with friends, and I’m in the dining room hunched over the laptop rubbing my temples.

I’ve spent the last five hours scouring job sites online and sending follow-up emails to the long list of prospective employers who have been ignoring me. Although each message is essentially the same, I type them out individually rather than copying and pasting, as if doing it the hard way will somehow increase my chances of finding a job: “Hello, I’m Louis Springfield. I submitted my resume recently, and am circling back …”

The house is a mess—crumbs on the carpet, dirty dishes in the sink—but I didn’t clean up this morning like I usually do when I get home after driving the girls to school. Instead, I immediately dove into the employment search and haven’t stopped since, not even getting up to use the bathroom. So far today, I’ve had exactly one sniff—a small tech company emailed that a representative would be contacting me sometime between seven and eight this evening for a brief screening interview on Zoom. Those screening interviews usually go nowhere, although it’s the closest thing I’ve had to a lead in ages. It’s something, at least.

I’ve been more motivated than ever to find work since Jeff showed up out of the blue last week throwing his money around. It’s embarrassing—I’m supposed to be the breadwinner, goddamn it.

Still, while I hate to admit it, the cocky sonofabitch has been a lifesaver. On his first visit, when he sent me to the store to buy whiskey and beer, he handed me a pair of hundred-dollar bills and told me to keep the change. The “change” turned out to be almost ninety bucks, enough to pay the balance on the water bill. And after dinner last night, just before he took off, he handed Dawn a cool grand in cash—ten crisp Benjamins. “To help you catch up a little,” he said, and my wife fell all over herself thanking him. She demanded that I thank him, too, and I complied through clenched teeth. Melissa noticed my humiliation and snorted into her wine goblet.

After Jeff and Melissa left the house last night, Dawn had me drive to the ATM and deposit the thousand dollars in our account so I could immediately pay the past-due heating and electric bills online. I took care of it before I went to bed, and it’s a huge weight lifted—but now the mortgage payment is due soon, and I don’t have anywhere near enough money in the account to cover it. I hate that I’m already counting on Jeff to come through and pay it for us. Damn it, I don’t want him paying for everything. I need to be the one who provides for Dawn. I’m her husband. Right?

Shit, I don’t even know anymore. The way she gazes at him. How he openly flirts back, right in my goddamn face. The man obviously has no respect for me, and I really can’t say I blame him, since I allow myself to be treated this way. Why should he respect me when I won’t stand up for myself? I’m still hurting from the question Melissa asked me at dinner last night, while Jeff was rubbing Dawn’s shoulder and reminiscing about their relationship: “Damn, Lou, you gonna let another man make a play for your wife like that?” The trailer-trash bitch only asked it to stir things up, like she always does. But it was a legitimate question—and everyone in the room knew the answer.

Dawn has openly screwed around on me for years, and I’ve accepted it with a smile. I mean, she had me working at her lover’s hardware store a few weeks ago before she broke up with him, for chrissakes. From the very beginning of this marriage, she’s flaunted her flings in my face. But it’s different with Jeff. Those other guys are just square jaws, biceps and big dicks. But as my wife told Peyton and Eva at supper last night, she and their father had “something special”—and from the sparks I’ve seen them generate when they’re together, it’s obvious they still do.

I refocus on my laptop and click on monster-dot-com. Maybe a new listing has been posted since I last visited the site forty minutes ago. If so, I’ll be among the first to submit a resume.

Ugh. Dick. I check my email again. Nada.

The front door rattles open and Dawn strides in gripping a Gucci bag in each hand. I gasp out loud—why is she shopping at such an expensive store when money is so tight? She chuckles when she notices me staring at the bags.

“Don’t worry—Jeff gave me his Visa Platinum card,” she explains, her lips and nostrils twitching, as if she’s daring me to stand up and fight for my dignity.

Blinking, I try to recall when Jeff gave her a credit card last night. Was it while I was cooking dinner? It couldn’t have been. I can see and hear everything from the kitchen.

Dawn reads my mind. “He met us at the mall for lunch,” she informs me with a delighted sigh. “Melissa told him I didn’t have much money on me, and he reaches in his wallet and hands me his goddamn Platinum card. He told me to buy whatever I wanted so I went to Gucci. It’s been ages.”

“Oh, wow. That’s, um … that’s great, hon. You … you always liked shopping at Gucci.” It’s a stupid thing to say, I know. But it’s all I can conjure up.

Dawn sets the bags on the coffee table and glances to and fro, her nose crinkled. “What the hell, Lou—this place is a goddamn pigsty.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry, I was gonna get to it soon. The girls have soccer practice after school, so I don’t have to pick them up until five. I’ve been online all day looking for a job—and, um, I got a Zoom interview tonight with Marl Industries, this place out of Fresno; they’re supposed to call between seven and eight. It might turn into something.”

“Hm, maybe it will.” Dawn smacks her lips. “But you need to hurry up and get this damn house clean—Jeff’s on his way over; he’ll be here in a few minutes.”

If this was a normal marriage, I would be perfectly within my rights to ask my wife why her ex is visiting when his daughters won’t be home for hours, or why he met her at the mall for lunch—but in our dysfunctional relationship that would be a huge mistake. I have a sinking feeling I don’t want to know why the asshole is coming over, anyway. So, instead of manning up and asking a perfectly legitimate question, I nod, sigh, close my laptop, and methodically start picking up the dirty dishes and cups from breakfast.

Dawn huffs and throws up her hands. “Can you pull the stick out of your ass, Lou, and hurry up? I just told you he’s on the way. He’ll be here in a few minutes—I don’t want him seeing this mess.”

“Okay, okay, I’m hurrying,” I reply in a pained voice—the closest thing to rebellion I’m able to muster.

After checking herself in the hallway mirror and fluffing her hair, Dawn strolls to the couch, scoops up the remote and starts channel-surfing. As she chills and watches the tube, I clean up around her at the quick-step before starting on the kitchen.

I’m leaning over the sink, elbows-deep in hot, sudsy water when the front door rattles open, followed by Dawn’s cheery, “Hey, you.”

I crane my neck and watch with a lump my throat as Jeff strides into my home like he owns the damn place. He leans down and kisses Dawn on the mouth before straightening up and waving at me with his fingertips. “Hey, there, Louie,” he calls with a wink. “Doin’ the dishes, eh? You’re always such a busy little guy, ain’t ya?”

“He wasn’t busy this morning; that’s why this place is a mess still,” Dawn snarls as her ex sits next to her on the sofa.

“Aw, Louie, what’s wrong—ain’t you taking care of your husbandly duties?” Jeff brays toward the kitchen.

Dawn snorts. “There’s a lot of husbandly duties he ain’t taking care of.”

Jeff smacks his forehead. “Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaammmnnn!!” He pushes his hair back. “That’s cold, Louie! How do you put up with that shit?”

The cotton in my mouth prevents me from replying, even if I wanted to, and I don’t want to.

Jeff pulls a packet from his vest pocket. “Feel like doing a line?”

My wife smiles. “Hell, yeah.”

I’m not shocked as I watch Jeff set out four long, tall rails, roll up a hundred-dollar bill and pass it to Dawn. She’s always been a party girl, although during our marriage, she’s done more drinking than snorting.

After the former lovers do their lines, Jeff leans back on the couch and smirks at me. “So, which husbandly duties ain’t you been taking care of, Louie?”

I shuffle my feet. “I dunno, man, that’s kind of our private business.”

“Private business? Aw, c’mon, Louie, we’re all friends here.”

“Lou knows the deal,” Dawn says with a leer, her eyes crazed from cocaine. “I do what I want to do, and see who I want to see.”

“So, you guys got one of them open marriages?” Jeff smirks. “Are you two, like, swingers or something?”

My wife sniffs. “I don’t know how he could be a swinger when his little dick don’t work. He tried to fuck me on our wedding night and couldn’t, so we ain’t never done it. He’s still a virgin.”

“Jee-zus Ca-hrist, are you fucking kidding me?”

“Hell no, I ain’t kidding. He’s a virgin, still.”

Amid Jeff’s howls, I close my eyes and explode.

“Man, what the fuck!” I flail my arms like a madman. “What the FUCK, DAWN!???”

“What?” She lights a Salem and blows smoke in my face. “Am I lying?”

“Come on, Dawn; that’s not right!” I bleat.

Jeff nods and fires up his own smoke. “I’m with you, Louie; that shit’s cold as fuck. I wouldn’t put up with it if I was you. I say you should put your foot down. Show the little bitch who’s boss.”

Dawn sneers. “Yeah, right. Put his foot down. This fucking wimp ain’t gonna do shit. Are you?” Without waiting for an answer, she dramatically drops her cigarette in the ashtray, plucks the Marlboro from Jeff’s lips, leans forward and forces her tongue down his throat. His hand finds her crotch and they make out like teenagers while I stand a few feet away, twiddling my thumbs and gawking. I notice that Jeff’s cigarette is still tucked between Dawn’s fingers, and the ember is coming dangerously close to the couch cushion. While contemplating whether to interrupt their moment to tell her she’s about to ruin the damned sofa, their lips disengage with a pop and my wife plants the cigarette back in her ex’s mouth. They both stand, smirking down at me.

“We’re going upstairs, Lou,” Dawn announces, fangs bared. “Finish cleaning the house.”

Jeff’s mouth is twisted as he hands me his still-smoking Marlboro butt. “Here, Louie, put that out for me, would ya?”

^^^^^^^^^^^^^​

It’s damn near midnight and I’m all alone again. Earlier, after Jeff and Dawn finished in the bedroom and I brought the girls home from soccer practice, their dad suggested the family take an hour-long drive to Harrisburg to meet up with some of his old biker buddies at a fish fry. Dawn and the girls loved the idea, but my wife pointed out that there wouldn’t be room for everyone in her Jaguar, and that my minivan is too beat up for such a long trip, since we haven’t had money to fix the leaky radiator and get the wheel alignment.

“No problem, guys,” Jeff announced with his chest puffed out. “I bought a new Range Rover yesterday—it’s right outside.”

I followed the chattering family out the front door and spotted the gleaming new SUV parked on the curb.

“Like it?” Jeff asked Peyton, which seemed odd. When she nodded, he replied: “Good, because it’s yours when you get your learner’s permit. That’s in a few months, right?”

Peyton jumped up and down, screaming like she was at a boy band concert before wrapping her father in a death-squeeze. “OMG, thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!!!!”

“I didn’t want to park it in the driveway and ruin the surprise, so I put ‘er on the curb,” the proud papa said as his oldest daughter embraced him with tears streaming down her cheeks. Jeff told Eva he’d buy her a ride, too, when she was old enough. Dawn fell over herself thanking her ex—and I made sure to do the same before she could tell me to do it.

When Jeff first suggested going to the fish fry, I assumed I’d be tagging along. Dawn dashed those hopes by reminding me that I had an interview with a potential employer. She had me pack a few snacks and sodas for the long drive, and then, with Hero Dad at the wheel, the Range Rover and my alleged family disappeared down Elm Street, as I stood in the driveway, pathetically waving goodbye.

The stinking interview took all of five minutes. The lady on the screen couldn’t have looked more disinterested. It was another colossal waste of time. And now I’m home alone … wondering. Pining. Squirming.

I’m sure they’re having a ball. I bet the fish tastes great. And Jeff’s probably the toast of the town among his biker buds, a newly minted millionaire who fucked over the cops. Dawn knows all those guys from when she was married to Jeff, and I’m sure they’re treating her and the kids like royalty.

I want to feel good for them, but fuck that. I’d rather wallow in self-pity. I deserve it.

If Jeff had balls enough to fuck Dawn in her marriage bed just a few hours ago with me downstairs in the living room, what’s he doing with her at the fish fry, in front of people who knew them when they were a loving couple—and in front of Peyton and Eva? He’s not exactly the most subtle guy in the world.

Then again, maybe he and Dawn will keep things on the downlow. After their romp in our bedroom earlier, they told me they didn’t want their daughters to know they’d had sex, because the concerned parents didn’t want to get their kids’ hopes up.

Hopes up? For what? A permanent reunion? I wanted to ask but was too scared.

Dawn and Jeff also told me they didn’t plan to stop seeing each other, whether Peyton and Eva found out or not, and that I should get used to it. I didn’t verbally agree, because my throat muscles wouldn’t cooperate, but my nod signaled my acquiescence.

With a lonesome sigh, I head upstairs to the bedroom, turn out the lights and flop into bed. It’s pretty damn late; they must REALLY be having a good time.

When they get home, I’ll pretend to be asleep. I can’t bear to face anyone tonight.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^​

Eva twirls spaghetti with her fork.

“Mom? Are you and Dad gonna get back together?”

From my position in the kitchen, I see Dawn shrug. “Why do you ask, baby?”

“I dunno.” Eva glances my way but my head is down as I pretend to wipe the counter. “You guys were all lovey-dovey at the fish fry last night. And Dad’s obviously still in love with you.”

Peyton nods. “Yeah, he is. You can tell by the way he looks at you, Ma. Can’t you see that? It’s so obvious.”

My wife lights a cigarette and blows smoke out of the side of her mouth. “Look, guys, nobody knows what’s gonna happen here. Your dad showing up like he did, with two million dollars … wanting to take care of you two … hell, I dunno—everything’s up in the air right now. Things are a little bit complicated.”

“Why can’t dad just be your boyfriend?” Peyton asks, casting a glimpse in my direction. “It’s not like you don’t see other guys already.”

Dawn sucks her Salem and exhales with a sigh. “Well, shit. We were gonna wait, but I guess we shouldn’t hide it from you guys—yeah, me and your dad have started seeing each together again. We were gonna take it easy till we got everything figured out for sure; didn’t want to get your hopes up.”

“OMG, you’re back with Dad?!” Eva claps, grinning ear-to-ear. “That’s so AWESOME!”

“What about Lou?” Peyton glances into the kitchen again. My head is still down,

“Yeah, how’s that gonna work with Lou around?” Eva searches her mom’s face.

“Lou, come in here,” my wife hollers.

I slink into the living room, my chin touching my chest. “Uh, wussup?” is all I’m able to croak.

“Listen, Lou, the girls are asking about their father and me, and there ain’t no point in hiding things, I don’t think.” Dawn takes a slow drag of her cigarette. “So, go ahead and tell ‘em what we agreed to yesterday.”

I stare at my slippers. “Um, well … your m-mom and d-d-dad … they still …” The inside of my mouth tastes like poop. I try again: “Your mom and dad still have f-f-f-feelings for each other, and I … I mean, I told them it’s … you know, that I wouldn’t … um, you know …”

“Your dad and me are seeing each other again, and Lou’s okay with it,” Dawn cuts off my stammering before twisting her cigarette butt in the ashtray. “We’ll figure everything out as we go, but for now that’s where we are.” She looks at me and points to the foyer counter. “Bring me my phone, would ya?”

I have to force myself to move, although I’m able to goad my muscles into action and hand Dawn her cellphone before slinking back to the kitchen.

“Hey, baby,” she says into the phone with syrup in her voice. “OMG, me too. Listen, I told the girls. About us, I mean. Yeah, they started asking questions, and I figured I’d go ahead and tell them. Hope you don’t mind? Oh … yeah … yeah, good. Me, too. Hell yeah, come over—I’ll have Lou make extra for ya.” She cocks her head and smirks. “Yeah, I told them he’s okay with it. We’re good.” With a giggle, she ends the call with, “Love you too, baby.”

Eva laughs. “‘Love you too, baby!’” she mimics her mother with glee.

“Man, that is SO AWESOME you guys are back together,” Peyton gushes.

My head is in the refrigerator. I’m pretending to be looking for something, so if anyone happens to glance my way, they won’t see me crying.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^​

The motorcycle’s roar causes a tizzy in the household. Gnashing my teeth, I stir the stew with a vengeance.

“Dad’s here!” Eva announces, clearly thrilled, dashing toward the front door with her older sister at her elbow. Dawn checks herself in the hallway mirror, licks her baby finger and uses it to smooth her mascara at the edge of her eye.

The King struts through the front door, shoulders back, teeth bared. I’d like to smack that shit-eating grin off his face—if only I wasn’t such a fucking coward.

Giggling and gushing, the girls are all over him as usual. Here’s Dad, the rich, handsome rock star—way cooler than wimpy little Lou.

After he hugs his daughters, he turns to Dawn and they freeze, grinning. Then, as if they’re reading each other’s minds, they both turn to me at the same time. Jeff scoffs in my direction, scoops my so-called wife into his arms, and kisses her forcefully.

I glance at Eva and she crinkles her nose at me. My lips form an embarrassed smile.

The kiss—a definitive statement to the family as much as a loving greeting—finally ends. “Hey-a, Louie, how’s it hanging?” Jeff asks, his taunting lilt thick. “You told the girls you’re okay with their mom and me?”

I nod, licking my lips to try to work up some saliva. “Y-yeah … um, it’s all good.”

“That’s great, Louie. You’re a bigger man than I am!” Jeff chuckles and takes my wife by the hand, leading her to the couch. “How about grabbing me one of them Heinies—you didn’t drink all of ‘em, did you?”

“Um, no, no, I don’t drink beer,” I stammer. “Hang on.”

“Grab me a Diet Coke while you’re in there,” Dawn orders as I walk toward the kitchen.

“Bring me a Sprite,” Eva calls.

“I’ll take one, too,” Peyton chimes in.

After I fetch the beverages, Jeff addresses me from his perch on my couch. “Dawn tells me you don’t have the money to pay your mortgage.” He cracks open his beer, takes a swig, and drapes his arm over my wife.

I rub the back of my neck. “Well … no … no, I don’t. I’m trying to figure something out. I’d work at McDonald’s if I could, but that would mess up my unemployment checks. If I can find something under-the-table, I’d do it … but I don’t know anyone.”

Jeff squeezes Dawn’s shoulder and flashes a scary-looking smile. “Shit, I’ll give you a job, Louie.”

“R-really?” I shuffle my feet. “Um … doing what?”

“I dunno … anything I need done, I guess.” Jeff lifts his arm away from Dawn and lights a Marlboro. “Run errands … wash my Harley … whatever. If you gotta put a name to it, we’ll call you my personal assistant. How’s a grand a week under the table sound?”

“Oh, hell yeah, he’ll take that all day,” Dawn replies without a glance my way.

Jeff smirks and sucks his teeth. “How ‘bout it, Louie?”

Unable to answer, I nod.

“Great.” Jeff takes another sip of beer. “After you get done making dinner, you can start by giving the bike a quick wash. You got Turtle Wax?”

“Um, yeah.”

“Great. Always use Turtle wax on my bikes. And make sure you really buff it good, so that shit don’t build up. ‘Kay?”

“Um, yeah, gotcha.”

My feet feel like they’re made of cement as I plod toward the kitchen to put the finishing touches on the stew. Just as I walk out of the room, I hear Eva giggle.

“OMG, Lou works for Dad now? That’s hilarious!”

Chapter 5: A Turning Point​

The water comes to a boil, so I dump rice into the pot and add a drop of olive oil. Dawn wants dinner on the table early tonight so we can eat and get to Eva’s Science Fair by seven-thirty.

My youngest stepdaughter has been working hard on her school project, a huge volcano activated by vinegar and baking soda that we assembled together a few weeks ago. Per the rules, parents were allowed to help make the actual volcano, but the students had to do the rest, including figuring out a way to trigger the explosion. I was happy to help; this was before Jeff entered the picture and I was still under the illusion that I was some kind of a father figure to the girls, albeit a weak one. Now, I’m shit.

Putting negative thoughts aside, I focus on the task at hand. I figure I can whip up a quick stir-fry, and we’ll have plenty of time to eat dinner and get to the school. I’m really looking forward to the Science Fair; it’s been ages since we had a nice family outing like that.

But as I’m chopping peppers, I hear a low hum in the distance that makes me groan. As the unmistakable rumble increases in volume, I feel it in my gut.

Fuck. Jeff’s Harley. What the hell—nobody told me he’d be coming over tonight! Does this mean he’s going with us to Eva’s Science Fair?

I’m afraid I already know the answer—why else would he be here?

“It’s Dad!” Eva shrieks when she hears the bike. Peyton drops her iPad and races her sister to the door, while Dawn slips her compact from her purse and checks her look in the mirror.

Peyton opens the door for her grinning dad. Father and daughter hug in the foyer before she tugs him by the hand into the house. Jeff embraces Eva and gives her a quick peck on the cheek, then turns to Dawn with fire in his eyes. They’re pulled together by some unseen gravitational force, and they French-kiss while their daughters giggle and nudge each other in the ribs.

When the lovebirds finally break apart, Jeff smiles at Eva. “Your mom told me you had a project in your school’s Science Fair tonight, and I thought I’d surprise you and come along—if it’s alright with you.”

“Alright?! Heck, yeah, are you kidding? I’d love for you to come.” Eva leaps forward to hug her lanky father again.

“Great, we can take the Range Rover,” Jeff says. He leans down to accept Eva’s embrace, and I’m reminded that I’m a little shrimp who would have to stand on my tiptoes to hug my twelve-year-old stepdaughter—that is, if she ever wanted to hug me, something she’s never done.

When Eva is finished thanking her father, Dawn and Jeff stroll hand-in-hand toward the couch with their daughters close behind. Once everyone is settled in, Jeff glances toward the kitchen and makes eye contact with me before I’m able to look away.

“Hey, Louise, whatcha cooking in there?”

Did he just call me Louise?

I pretend I didn’t hear it. “Um, chicken stir-fry.”

“Mm, sounds great, I’m starving.”

“Uh … I … I’m sorry, but I’m not sure if there’s enough,” I stammer. “If I do smaller helpings, maybe I can stretch it out. Sorry, I didn’t know you were coming over.”

Jeff sucks his teeth. “That’s okay, you ain’t gonna have time to eat anyway—as soon as you finish up in there, you need to head on over to Clarkstown asap. There’s a bunch of bikes you’re gonna need to polish up tonight, and it’s gonna take you a few hours, so you’ll need to get going.”

“T-tonight?” I squeeze the wooden stirring spoon. “But I was … um … planning on going to the … uh, Science Fair.”

“Yeah, sorry ‘bout that; I’m gonna need you on the clock tonight,” he says in a tone that makes it clear this isn’t up for discussion. “Hawkman wants the Bandits’ bikes looking sharp before the Hansville rally tomorrow, and I owe that man my life. So, you need to finish making dinner and get going, m’kay? And make sure you grab your Turtle Wax and shit out of the garage; I don’t know if they have any of that shit at the clubhouse.”

I audibly exhale. “What the fuck,” I mutter under my breath.

“Is there a problem?” Jeff’s eyes twinkle.

With frustration shooting out of my ears, I open my mouth and let it fly: “Jeez, I don’t know, Jeff—I didn’t think this job meant that I had to be available twenty-four hours a goddamn day! I worked hard on Eva’s volcano, and I wanted to go to the Science Fair. Is that too much to ask?”

Dawn hits the roof. “You better check that goddamn attitude!” She fires up a cigarette and slams her lighter on the table. “Jeff is paying you good money, goddamn it. He didn’t need to give you that job, Lou; he did it for us, so we wouldn’t be out in the damn street. You should be thanking him every day for helping us keep a roof over our heads, since you’re too goddamn sorry to find a real job.”

“Aw, come on, baby, he’s got a real job,” Jeff jumps in with a chortle. “Your husband is a great little personal assistant. He didn’t mean to get all huffy and bent out of shape—did you, now?”

Even though I’m gazing at the carpet, I can feel the heat of my wife’s laser-beam stare, and I know there’s only one answer I can provide that won’t cause major drama: “No, no, I’m sorry. Sorry I lost my temper. L-let me brown the chicken and throw in the veggies, and then I’ll get going.”

Jeff leans back and smirks. “That’s my little Louise. Grab me a beer first, would ya?”

I nod and lumber toward the kitchen, trying to convince myself that twice now, Jeff has mistakenly used the feminine version of my name—but I know damn well he’s just being an asshole.

Behind my back, I hear Peyton crow: “Ah ha, Dad called him Louise!”

I guess she didn’t hear him the first goddamn time, I mumble to myself as I reach in the refrigerator and grab a cold bottle of Jeff’s beer. With a pathetic little squeak escaping my throat, I twist off the cap and throw it on the floor with all my might. It skips across the tiles and ricochets off the baseboard before sliding to a stop near the stove.

Fuck Jeff. And I’m not picking that up, either. Fuck him.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^​

The huge, scary-looking biker standing cross-armed near the door scowls at me when I edge into the dark facility. I look away from the man’s glare, and my eyes fall on the huge mural on the back wall: A skull beneath the word “Bandits” that marks the place as the motorcycle gang’s clubhouse.

“You lost, little man?” the doorman grunts, hovering over me with his fists now balled, ready for action.

“Um, no, no, I’m not lost … um, Jeff sent me? Uh, I’m supposed to talk to a guy named … uh, Hawkman?”

“Uh.” The behemoth turns to a white-bearded man who’s sitting at the bar nursing a mug of beer. “Hey, Hawkman, this dude says Jeff sent him here to see you,” he hollers.

Hawkman nods and crooks his finger at me. I slog across the room and approach the leather-clad, tattooed outlaw, who appears to be in his 50s or 60s.

He looks me up and down and snorts. “You’re Dawn’s new husband?”

“Um, yeah.”

He shakes his head. “Damn, I know Jeff said she married you for your money—but even so, I never thought that hot little firecracker would end up with …” He finishes the sentence with a “Pfft” and a sneer.

I’m not sure how to reply, so I say the first thing that comes to mind: “Um, yeah, we’ve been married for nine years.”

Hawkman smiles and looks off to the side. “I’ve always loved Dawn—she’s quite a woman.”

“Um, yeah. Yes, she is.”

“And yet, you’re just gonna let Jeff take her from you? You’re just gonna step aside and let another man steal your wife? That’s fucked up, dude.”

“Um, who told you that?”

“He did. Jeff’s like a son to me, boy—we don’t keep secrets. He says he’s got you working for him, now, too?”

I nod, too embarrassed to lift my eyes from the clubhouse floor. “Yeah, I, uh, lost my job a few months ago, and he’s, um, letting me do some odd jobs under-the-table … until I can find something.”

Hawkman chuckles. “Goddamn Jeff—that motherfucker’s always sniffing out guys like you. He’s got a fucking nose for it.”

“What … what do you mean?”

The grizzled biker lights a Winston. “When we were in the joint, he had a whole army of little twinkies ironing his clothes, giving him their desserts, shining his shoes, turning tricks for him. I mean, a lot of us had Bandit Bitches in the penitentiary—but ol’ Jeff must’ve turned twenty of those faggots out, and he was only in for a couple years. Motherfucker probably pulled in two thousand a month pimping alone—plus he was using his bitches as mules, smuggling in drugs up their ass. Shit, he built up a whole network with those bitches that’s still going strong today. I taught that boy well; he has a knack for finding people’s weak spots and exploiting them. And now it looks like he’s got himself another Bandit Bitch.”

I want to scream at this asshole “I’m nobody’s bitch,” but that would surely result in me getting a major ass-whipping from the dozen or so bikers in the bar—plus, I’m not convinced it’s true in the first place. Maybe I am Jeff’s bitch. Maybe I’m everyone’s bitch. I sure as hell let myself be treated like one.

Hawkman claps twice. “Alright, little man, enough bullshitting. The bikes are out back; Jeff says you do a good job on his hog, so I want ‘em all to shine the same way. We got a big rally tomorrow, and I want the Bandits to represent. Think you can handle that?”

“Um, yeah.”

He takes a swig of beer and cocks his head toward the rear entrance. “Alright, get going, then. There’s a hose over by the brick wall.”

In a fog, I step outside and behold the line of Harley Davidsons parked in the rear lot. I sigh.

It’ll take four fucking hours to wash them all. At least. Might as well get it over with

I roll up my sleeves and get busy.

While I work, I can’t stop thinking about what Hawkman told me—how Jeff turned a bunch of weakling inmates into “Bandit Bitches” during his two years in prison, abusing and manipulating them like he’s doing with me.

Fuck, I can’t lie to myself. Jeff didn’t make a mistake when he called me “Louise” earlier—he’s planning to turn me into yet another Bandit Bitch.

Am I already his Bandit Bitch?

As much as I hate to admit it, the question is answered for me when I get back to buffing the Harley I’m working on. Only fifteen more to go.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^​

When I finally get home around midnight, waterlogged, demoralized and exhausted, I deflate even further when I see the motorcycle in the driveway.

Fuck. Looks like he’s spending the night—in my bed, I’m sure. Where the hell am I supposed to sleep? The goddamn couch? This shit’s getting ridiculous.

The lights are out downstairs when I walk in the house. I want to slam the door as hard as I can to announce my presence with a vengeance, but I wimp out and shut it normally.

“Hey, bring me a beer up here,” Jeff calls before I’m able to sit down. With a sigh, I head to the kitchen and notice the Heineken cap still on the floor near the stove where I’d thrown it—my pathetic attempt at defiance. Like the weakling I am—like a true Bandit Bitch—I lean down and pick it up, shitcanning it before grabbing another bottle from the fridge, removing the cap and throwing it away properly, too. I’ve got no fight left in me.

I don’t know why, but I feel compelled to knock on my own bedroom door. When Dawn tells me to enter, I step across the threshold and take in a sight that sends me reeling: My wife and her manly lover kicked back in bed smirking amid a tangle of wrinkled sheets and a huge wet spot that’s shaped like Japan.

“Hey, Louise, just in time—I worked up quite a thirst with ol’ girl here, if you know what I mean,” Jeff chirps, and his use of the feminine version of my name hits harder than it did earlier, knowing what I know now.

In a daze, I stumble to the bed and hand Jeff his beer. He sucks down half the bottle in a single gulp and passes it to Dawn, who takes a dainty sip.

“Is Hawkman gonna give you a good report?” she asks me with a curled upper lip. “You better not have embarrassed me.”

“Um, no, he said he was happy with the job I did—and he had a lot of nice things to say about you,” I add, pathetically trying to curry favor with my faithless wife.

“I love ol’ Hawkman,” she smiles at her lover, handing him back his beer bottle. “Even if he is a bad influence on you—always was, the old bastard.”

“Hey, that ‘old bastard’ saved my life more times than I can count,” Jeff says before downing the rest of his beer and holding out the empty bottle, expecting me to take it, which I do.

I’m waiting for him to mention his prison stint with the old biker, but the subject doesn’t come up. Instead, he smirks and says: “Okay, Louise, you can go.”

Dawn snorts. “Why do you keep calling him Louise?”

“Because he’s a little bitch, that’s why.” Jeff props his hands behind his head on the pillow. “Tell Dawn what you are, Louise.”

I bow my head. “Come on, Jeff,” I whisper. “Be cool.”

“TELL HER, GODDAMN IT!!!”

What little willpower I have left drains from my bosom like air from a popped balloon. “… um, a l-l-little bitch.”

“SAY IT LOUDER, OR I’LL PUT MY FOOT UP YOUR ASS.”

“I’M A LITTLE BITCH!”

Dawn’s face contorts with disgust. “You gotta be fucking kidding me!” She turns to her ex and shakes her head. “Swear to God, I’m embarrassed I married this fag.”

Jeff’s eyes dance. “Nah, Louise is alright. He’s just being who he is. Right, Louise?”

I can barely hear him above the buzzing in my head. Every fiber of my being wants to tell this smug asshole to go fuck himself—but then I envision the aftermath, which would likely result in bruises, and surely would cause Dawn to kick me out of her life forever.

“RIGHT?” he demands.

I squeeze the empty bottle and nod.

“SAY IT, BITCH!!”

“I … I’m just being who I am.”

“And what is that?”

“A … a little bitch.”

“See? There’s a good lil bitch.” Jeff pulls my wife close. “Close that door behind you, would ya, bitch?”

I nod again and hurry from the room. The second I shut the door, I drop the empty Heineken bottle on the hallway carpet, fall to my knees, and start sobbing.

Chapter 6: Crashing​

It’s a little chilly out here in the garage, but I’m hiding, pretending to be looking for something. If anyone needs anything, goddamn it, they’re gonna have to come find me—I don’t feel like being in the house right now with you-know-who holding court as usual, bragging about guys whose asses he kicked, or cops he outran on the highway.

The asshole never leaves. I’m not stupid; I can see the writing on the wall. Dawn is going to dump me for him. The only question is when. She absolutely hates me now. I mean, she never was exactly warm and fuzzy, and she became even colder when Jeff reentered her life. But since her ex made me say I was a little bitch in front of her the other night, she’s been treating me like I’ve got leprosy or something, recoiling in disgust whenever I come anywhere near her.

Jeff thinks it’s hilarious—and he keeps calling me Louise, which cracks the girls up. They sometimes refer to me as Louise now, too, much to Jeff’s amusement, although it only makes Dawn even more revolted by my existence. If their mom seems in a bad mood, the girls know not to push her buttons by referring to me by my feminine name.

Given my wife’s background, I think her annoyance likely stems from her disgust for gay people. She grew in a culture where “fags” were held in the lowest regard, so hearing me call myself a little bitch while her manly ex referred to me as Louise probably triggered something in her.

She also grew up in a culture in which her whiskey-swilling lowlife of a stepfather repeatedly molested her until she ran away from home at age 17 and hooked up with Jeff, which explains why she treats me the way she does.

So, why do I put up with it? Am I a masochist? A martyr? That’s it. If I have to put it in a box and name it, I’d say I’m a martyr for love. My love for Dawn.

All I ever wanted was to give her a better life. She had two kids and no money, and needed someone to rescue her. For nine years, I’ve been her faithful knight in shining armor—and she’s dogged me the entire time. And now that I’m no longer useful to her with Jeff and his money in the picture, she’s going to divorce me, sure as shit. I’ll be left with nothing. And Jeff—that smug cocksucker—he’s going to destroy me on my way out.

I ought to tell him to go fuck himself and his thousand dollars a week. Or, even better, just slip out the goddamn backdoor in the middle of the night, take my toothbrush and the clothes on my back, and start over. She’s gonna kick me out anyway eventually. What’s left for me here?

Dawn, goddamn it. She’s what’s left for me here. I know it’s stupid. I know it’s tearing me to pieces.

But I’m a martyr. A martyr for love. My love for Dawn. My trailer park princess who was in a bind and needed a hand.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^​

Peyton picks at her pancakes, obviously wanting to say something. She finally gets it out: “Ma, is it okay if I drive the Range Rover in the Walmart parking lot after we eat?”

Dawn exhales. “I’m going shopping with Melissa. See if your dad can do it.”

“I already texted him; he said he’s riding out to Clarkstown with his friends from the Bandits, and won’t be back till way later.”

They both turn to me.

Peyton huffs. “Ugh, I don’t want to go with Lou!” she groans.

“Either he takes you or nobody does,” Dawn says, cutting her hotcake.

“Pfft, alright.”

I lick my lips. “Um, sorry … but Jeff dropped off a bunch of motorcycle parts last night; he said he wanted them all cleaned and polished today. There’s a whole bunch of ‘em out there, and I still haven’t done the laundry yet.”

Dawn scowls. “So, why the hell didn’t you get Jeff’s stuff done last night?”

“Um, he, uh, had me washing his motorcycle.”

“What; you couldn’t have stayed up late and got it done?”

“I … I was out till almost eleven with his bike. I … I had to use the flashlight.”

Peyton snorts and nudges her mom. “Yeah, remember? Dad yelled at him for quitting when it got dark.”

I hold out my hands. “I can try to get it all done,” I plead.

“You’re fucking useless.” Dawn crinkles her nose. “Go find something to do, would you? I’m sick of looking at you, and I’d like to eat my breakfast without feeling like I’m about to puke.”

“Dang, Ma!” Eva guffaws. “That’s colllllllld!”

I pick up my plate and shuffle toward the kitchen.

“I wanna be ready to go by noon,” Peyton calls after me, and my spirits are somewhat buoyed by the prospect of playing stepdad again, and being there for her so she can practice her driving. I’m also scared that I’ll do or say something stupid, and get her mad at me like her mom always seems to be these days.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^​

I grit my teeth. “Um, Peyton, you have to hold the wheel straight; you can’t keep jerking it back and forth like that.”

“SHUT UP, LOU, I’M TRYING TO CONCENTRATE.”

“But, Peyton, you—”

“SHUT UP, GODDAMN IT!”

I grip the edges of the passenger seat with white knuckles. My face gets even whiter as Peyton, who won’t listen to shit, careens through the Walmart parking lot.

“PEYTON, WAIT, NO!!!!!”

Despite my warning, she makes a fast turn the wrong way down a lane just as a minivan pulls out of its parking spot, and—WHAM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!—the airbags deploy, my head is knocked backward and my stepdaughter screams bloody murder.

“YOU MADE ME DO THAT, LOU! DISTRACTING ME WITH ALL YOUR GODDAMN TALKING!!” she shrieks through tears as the dust settles.

I rub my chest where the airbag hit, and I’m blown away by Peyton’s chutzpah. Mere seconds after the crash, she’s already lying to establish the narrative that I’m responsible for this disaster.

With a sigh, I start to pull out my cellphone to call my wife, but it occurs to me that I should probably check on the other driver first. While Peyton bawls in the driver’s seat, texting someone—most likely telling her mom that I caused the crash—I unlock my seatbelt, open the door and stagger from the SUV. My first few steps are wobbly, and I can feel the pain of the impact getting stronger now that the initial shock is starting to wear off.

The driver of the minivan, a woman who appears to be in her 40s, is clearly pissed off, but she holds her temper as we take care of business—calling police, exchanging insurance information. As we wait for first responders to arrive, I figure I’m probably going to be up Shit’s Creek because Peyton doesn’t have her learner’s permit yet, and she shouldn’t be driving, even in a parking lot.

Sure enough, after the authorities arrive, and the emergency medical technicians ensure there are no injuries, a cop hands me a summons to appear in court next month on charges of negligent supervision and allowing an unlicensed driver to operate a vehicle.

Dawn and Eva screech up in the Jaguar a few minutes after the police and EMTs leave, while Peyton, the other driver and me are waiting in the Walmart parking lot for tow trucks to get here.

“What the hell happened?” my wife demands after jumping from her car.

“I told you in the text—Lou kept screaming at me and he distracted me.” Peyton scowls my way. “I kept telling him he was distracting me, but he wouldn’t shut up.”

“Dang, it’s messed up bad, Ma,” Eva says, rubbing her hands over the Range Rover’s crumpled front fender. “Dad’s gonna be maaaaaaad.”

Dawn takes in the damage and I can see her rage boil over, just before she hauls off and slaps the shit out of me, right in front of the minivan driver. I rub my cheek as tears fill my eyes.

“You wait here for the tow truck; we’re leaving,” my wife snaps before moving toward her Jaguar. “Eva’s right: Jeff’s not gonna be happy about this at all.”

Dawn and her daughters climb into the Jag, and I watch it speed away. I continue my gaze forward, staring at a stray basket someone left in the parking lot, too ashamed to look at the woman who was the victim in the accident.

“Sir, are you okay?” she asks in a gentle tone.

I still can’t turn my head her way. “No … t-thanks. I’m … I’m fine.”

^^^^^^^^^^^^^​

Seven carburetors, three exhaust pipes, a set of handlebars and an engine cover all sit in the garage, arranged in a neat row and gleaming under the fluorescent lights. The handlebars are a bit off, so I adjust them so they’re perfectly aligned with the other parts I’d worked so hard on.

I’m waiting for the man of the house to arrive, scared to death of what’s going to happen when he gets here. Surely, Dawn told him about the accident—and that it was my fault, even though it wasn’t. Earlier, when I finally got home in the Uber after the Range Rover was towed to a repair facility, my wife told me she didn’t want to see me, and sent me to the garage— “so you’re not in the same goddamn house with me.” The other night, I hid in the garage on my own; now, I’m banished to sit out here all by myself. Funny how life works sometimes.

The sudden far-off rumble makes my stomach flutter more violently than usual, and a chill runs through me. I pace in circles as the put-put gets louder. The Harley shuts off. A few seconds later, the front door opens and shuts. I hug myself, rocking back and forth and fighting the urge to pee.

The garage door suddenly swings open and here comes Jeff, fists clenched, with his scowling family close behind.

Within a nanosecond, he’s hovering right over me, inches away. “What the fuck did you do, you pansy-ass little bitch?”

“I … I …” My eyelids and lips flutter.

WHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAP!!!!!!!!!!!!

Jeff’s punch snaps my head back violently for the third time that day, and I crumble to the concrete garage floor, moaning and holding my nose.

“You’re lucky I don’t beat the living shit out of you, Louise,” the better man says. “That goddamn Rover cost me a fortune—but it ain’t the money; you could’ve got my daughter killed, you stupid, little faggot.”

I glance at Dawn, who’s staring at me with her lip curled and her hands on her hips. “I don’t see the point in even doing this anymore, Lou. I can’t stand the sight of you. Jeff and me are in love. The girls are taken care of. Let’s just make it official and get a goddamn divorce.”

Holding my nose to keep the blood from dripping, I struggle to my knees. “OMG, please … no! Don’t do this to me. Please.”

Jeff shakes his head and scoffs. “God-DAMN, you’re pathetic. What the hell, Louise, a lot of people get divorced. You’ll live, for chrissakes.”

I release my nose and shake my clasped hands, with hot tears streaming down my cheeks and blood running down the front of my shirt. “I can’t … I can’t …” I close my eyes and mumble: “If I don’t have my family, I don’t have a reason to live.”

Dawn snorts. “His daddy left his ma when he was a baby, and he always wanted a reeeeeeeaaaal family,” she tells her ex in a syrupy, mocking tone. The sense of betrayal I feel as she makes fun of my deepest insecurity like that during this incredibly vulnerable moment churns my insides. My stepdaughters’ sniggers make it even worse.

“Wipe your goddamn nose before you get blood everywhere,” is the only sympathy I get from my adoring spouse.

Kneeling there on the garage floor in front of the whole family like this … it has to be my rock-bottom moment. But I’m not feeling like I’m at the start of some journey toward better things like respect and a normal life—no, all I’m thinking of is how I can possibly convince my wife to let me stay.

“P-please?” I croak. “I’ll do anything, please, don’t do this to me. I won’t last a week without you, I swear I won’t.”

“You’re pathetic,” Dawn snaps.

“Whatever you want! Please. Anything.”

Jeff rubs the side of his neck. “Now, hold up here a minute, Louise. You say you’ll do ANYTHING?”

I nod, feeling a sense of dread wash over me.

The head of the family turns to his lady. “Shit, honey, if he’s willing to do anything, why not take him up on it? Hell, I can keep him around as my personal assistant. He can keep on doing shit for the Bandits. The guys love Louise—shit, their bikes ain’t never looked so good. And I won’t have to pay the little bitch a thousand a week anymore, either.”

“But we need that to pay the bills.”

“I’m here now, baby.” The sonofabitch smiles. “I’ll pay the bills.”

“Baby, I … I don’t know.” Dawn glares at me. “I just can’t stand him being in the house anymore.”

“So, make his ass sleep out here in the garage.”

The girls giggle.

“I dunno, baby,” Dawn says again, her disgust for me utterly palpable. “I guess, if you think it’s worth keeping the little faggot around—but I don’t want to be married to him anymore, that’s for damn sure.”

Jeff smirks at me. “You hear that, Louise? You get to stay. For now, anyway. We’ll put you on probation and see how it goes. Now, what do you say to ol’ girl?”

I can’t make eye contact with my beloved wife. “T-thank you. Thank you for letting me stay here with you.”

“OMG, he’s so pathetic!” Peyton shakes her head.

Jeff cracks his neck, reaches down, and ruffles my hair. “Listen, Louise, I know you done been through a lot tonight, but dinner ain’t gonna cook itself. Now, get up off the floor and shake that little pansy ass of yours—I’m hungry.”

Chapter 7: Ch-Ch-Changes​

I wake up hurting all over. Inside and out.

Ugh, did yesterday even happen, or was it just a bad dream?

Rubbing my eyes doesn’t make the pain go away. Yesterday happened, all right—and it was a fucking disaster. Between the Range Rover crash, Jeff kicking my ass, and the deathblow, Dawn telling me she wanted a divorce, it was probably the worst day of my life. And I’ve had a lot of bad days.

On top of everything else, my soon-to-be ex-wife says if I want to stick around, I’ll have to sleep out here in the garage. That was Jeff’s suggestion, and she eagerly took him up on it. And it fucking SUCKS. This floor is murder on my back; I’ve got a blanket and pillow, but they aren’t helping much on this concrete. No matter which way I turn I can’t get comfortable. I may have gotten two hours’ sleep if I’m lucky.

I won’t be able to walk if I have to do this every night. Should I ask Jeff for a small cot to put out here? Man, that would be embarrassing to have to beg him like that. Still, if I want to sleep on something soft, I’m going to need him to buy it, since I won’t have the cash to get a cot myself until my next unemployment check gets here, and that’s not for another week.

Ugh, that reminds me: My unemployment benefits are set to run out in just a few weeks, and I have no idea what I’m going to do once those checks stop coming. Jeff said he won’t be paying me anymore, so if I want anything that costs money, I’ll have to ask him for it, because I know damn well Dawn won’t give it to me. She hates me now more than ever.

Man, this fucking sucks. What the hell kind of Faustian bargain did I agree to, anyway?

I shake my head to try to clear the cobwebs, but that hurts my nose, which still throbs from Jeff’s punch. I try to stand, but I collapse before moving two inches. My entire body aches from a night on this unforgiving floor, and from bearing the brunt of yesterday’s crash, which was completely Peyton’s fault. She was driving like a maniac, not looking where she was going, and refusing to listen to anything I tried to tell her. That poor lady in the minivan never stood a chance.

But of course, everyone blames me. Of course, they do. All I did was try to be there so my stepdaughter could practice her driving, and now I’m on the whole family’s shit-list, Dawn is divorcing me—plus, I have to appear in court next month for negligent supervision and allowing an unlicensed driver to operate a vehicle.

It says on the ticket that I could get a thousand-dollar fine or up to ninety days in jail if I’m found guilty, which I probably will be, because there’s no question I committed the offense. And, since I won’t have a thousand bucks after my unemployment runs out, I’ll probably be going to jail, unless I can somehow convince Jeff to pay the fine. He’s so pissed off about the crash, though, I wouldn’t count on that any time soon. My best bet is to avoid the subject for now, and maybe approach him about it when it gets closer to the court date. I’m hesitant to even ask about money for a cot, although if I don’t, I literally won’t be able to move after a few days.

When I’m finally able to rouse myself, I retrieve my toiletries from their new spot on the workbench and slink into the house to the small guest bathroom off the foyer. My ears burn with humiliation, and my stomach churns with sadness as I go about my morning routine in the humble confines of the tiny anteroom, rather than in the spacious master bathroom suite as usual.

I’d better get used to it. Dawn would rather die than let me sleep in her bed again, so I guess the only time I’ll be seeing the master bathroom from now on is when I clean it.

I stop and look in the mirror. I’m ashamed at what I see. Face swollen. Dead eyes. An empty tank.

When I notice that my toothpaste is nearly empty, too, it occurs to me that after my unemployment checks dry up, I’ll need permission to buy even the most basic necessities.

What the hell kind of Faustian bargain did I agree to, anyway?

^^^^^^^^^^^^^​

I’m just finishing up a batch of waffles when Jeff and Dawn stroll down the stairs holding hands. The lovebirds. I hurry into the dining room with the coffee pot as fast as I can with my achy body.

Jeff sits in Dawn’s usual chair at the head of the table, smirking at the bruises on my face as I fill his cup. “Damn, I popped you pretty good last night, huh?”

I nod.

Dawn scowls. “Well, it looks nasty. Don’t you have a COVID mask somewhere?”

“Um, yeah, there’s a few out in the minivan.”

“Well, go put one on. And keep it on whenever you’re in the house—I don’t want to look at that faggoty face of yours.”

Jeff chuckles. “Damn, girl, you’re being mean to poor little Louise.”

“Yeah, well fuck poor little Louise,” she snaps, clearly not in the mood to kid around about me.

By the time I return from retrieving a cloth mask from the minivan and donning it, Peyton and Eva are at the dining room table, waiting for me to fill their glasses with orange juice, like I’ve done since they were in elementary school.

As I pour Eva’s OJ, her eyes twinkle when she notices my mask. “Good idea covering his face, Dad—this way, nobody has to look at him.”

Jeff sips his coffee. “It was actually your mom’s idea, honey. And she said the exact same thing.”

“Well, I don’t want to look at him, mask or not,” Dawn snarls, giving me the side-eye. “Hurry up and finish making breakfast, and then go wait in the kitchen until you’re called.”

^^^^^^^^^^^^^​

Dawn says she wants to be the one to file for a divorce, but she’s making me download and fill out all the forms, which feels like digging my own grave, or building the scaffolding that’ll be used to hang me. When I get all the necessary paperwork together, I put it in a manila envelope and hobble to the living room, where my soon-to-be ex-wife is lounging on the couch watching TV with her ex-husband.

Jeff looks up at me and sneers. “Why are you limping so bad, Louise? I didn’t hit you that hard, did I?”

“No, no, it’s just … well, it’s really hard sleeping on that concrete with only the blanket,” I mumble. “I was wondering if I could … um, you know, borrow a few bucks until I get my check next week, so I can find maybe a used cot at the secondhand store?”

Jeff presses mute on the remote and sucks his teeth. “Well, now, I dunno if you’ll be able to pay me back, Louise—you ain’t gonna have much left over from your check after you pay your room and board.”

“R-r-room and board?”

“Yeah, room and board. What, did you think you were just gonna stay here for free after you divorce ol’ girl?”

Dawn frowns at the envelope I’m cradling. “Them the papers?”

I nod.

“Well, bring ‘em over here, and let me sign ‘em,” she says. “You can go file ‘em at the courthouse tomorrow. You got a pen?”

Again, I nod, because there’s no way I can utter words without breaking into sobs. With my heart dipped in shit, I watch as my wife of nine years pulls the papers from the envelope and signs on the designated lines showing no emotion whatsoever.

“Glad that’s over with,” she says as she hands the pen and documents back to me. “Make sure you go file ‘em tomorrow.”

I stand in the living room clutching my divorce papers, trying not to cry. This is an absolutely crushing moment in my life—my worst fear come true.

Dawn, my vulnerable princess, the woman who needed my help, doesn’t need me. Doesn’t want me. I won’t have a family. I WON’T HAVE A FAMILY.

I’m clinging to the lifeline that I’ll be allowed to stay here as long as I remain working as Jeff’s unpaid personal assistant—or, more accurately, his personal flunky. But now I find out I’m going to be charged for the privilege.

How the hell am I supposed to afford to pay room and board after my checks stop coming? How much is the asshole gonna charge me, anyway?

I want to ask but I’m too scared.

Dawn’s bitchy voice jolts me from my reverie: “Was there something else you needed?”

I shuffle my feet. “Um … just … you know, I’m wondering if I could maybe … you know, get a cot or something to sleep on? That floor is so hard … please?”

The woman who hates my guts sniffs and stares me down. “Fuck no, you can’t get no goddamn cot. Sleep on the floor, you little faggot. Now, get the fuck out of here.”

Jeff’s laugher mocks me as I shamble from the living room with my chin on my chest.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^​

It’s hot as hell in the kitchen with the casserole baking in the oven and two burners going, so I pull the mask to my chin, close my eyes and suck in a deep, invigorating breath.

Eva’s squawk from the living room makes me jump: “Ooh, Dad, Louise took his mask off.”

Jeff frowns at me from his spot on the couch next to Dawn. “Didn’t ol’ girl tell you to keep that on when you’re in the house, Louise?”

I slip the mask back on my face. “Yeah, s-sorry, I just took it off for a minute. It’s really hot in here … sorry.”

“Get your ass in here,” the man of the house demands, and I wipe my hands on my pantlegs before scurrying into the living room.

“You’re pissing me off, Louise,” Jeff says, although his tone seems more playful than angry. “Dawn don’t wanna look at your ass—so keep that goddamn mask on when you’re in the house. You hear?”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Look, Louise, if you don’t want to follow the rules around here, we can end this probation thing right now, and you can take your ass on down the road.”

“NO, PLEASE!” I shout, and I’m immediately embarrassed at how easily I grovel. “Please, I’m sorry. I’ll follow the rules.”

Eva leers. “Make him get down on his knees again, Dad.”

“Ooh, yeah,” Peyton seconds.

“I don’t want to see that shit,” Dawn snaps, baring her fangs at me. “Just keep the goddamn mask on, idiot.”

“S-sorry,” I murmur.

“You should make him wear a ski mask, Ma.” Eva grins at me. “That way, you’d see even less of his ugly face.”

Dawn is in no mood for hijinks, so she just glowers in response.

I’m not sure if I should leave, so, being the coward I am, I stay put and wait to be formally dismissed.

Jeff fires up a smoke. “I’m gonna start fining you when you fuck up, Louise,” he says with a twinkle in his eye. “Not wearing your mask is gonna cost you twenty bucks; we’ll take it out of your next check—after we deduct for your room and board, that is.”

I conjure up the courage to ask a question: “Um, h-how much is that gonna be? Um, room and board, I mean?”

The man I work for takes a reflective puff of his Marlboro, blows smoke at me and puts the ciggy back between his lips, closing one eye as the smoke drifts upward. “You know, I been thinking about that, Louise,” he says. “Didn’t you say your unemployment’s about to run out soon?”

“Um, yeah … I get two more checks.”

“Well, how you gonna pay room and board after that? How you gonna pay your cellphone bill? I need you to have a cellphone, for when I need you to do shit.”

I blink. “I … I don’t know. That’s what I was wondering … um, how it’s gonna all work out.”

“And I been wondering the same thing, Louise.” Jeff takes a drag and blows smoke through his nose. “If you ain’t got money, how are you gonna pay for your upkeep?”

“I … I …” There’s nothing I can think of to say, so I bow my head and wait for him to continue.

He lets the tension build for a few grueling seconds. “Here’s my suggestion—and baby, let me know if this works for you,” he tells his woman before turning back to me. “Louise, if you want to stay here, then you need to pay the whole family back. You won’t just work for me—you’ll work for everyone. The whole family. You do what everyone says, no matter what.”

“He already does that; the little wimp,” Dawn snarls. “He’s never had a backbone.”

Jeff chuckles. “Yeah, but this’ll be different.”

“How so?”

“Because he’ll actually be working, like a job,” Jeff replies, and I feel self-conscious having my future discussed like this as if I’m not even here. “The girls will be his bosses; he’ll be their employee, not their stepdad.”

“He never WAS my stepdad,” Peyton interjects, shooting a dagger through my heart.

“Ooh, can we make him do whatever we want?” Eva asks with her eyes aglow.

“Whatever you want,” Jeff affirms. “I mean, within reason. He’ll be your employee. For real. He’ll work for you. We’ll give him a salary—say, a hundred a month—to pay his cellphone bill, and get whatever else he needs. If he fucks up, he gets fined; that’ll keep him on his toes.”

“So, he’ll only get eighty bucks this month because you fined him twenty for not wearing his mask?” Eva asks.

“That’s pretty good math, honey.” Jeff smiles at his daughter. “That’s the system we’ll use after his checks run out; for now, I’ll just take his whole check, and we’ll call that room and board. We’ll start the official fine system once his checks run out—and then, he’s only getting eighty bucks.” He turns to Dawn. “And I was thinking about having the girls hold onto Louise’s money, so he’ll need to go to them if he wants something extra. I think it would teach them financial responsibility—and they’re gonna need that now that the family is millionaires.”

I take note of Jeff’s manipulation tactics, leveraging the girls, “the family” and his money as he tries to convince Dawn to agree to his dastardly plan.

My wife lights a Salem. “I dunno. To tell you the truth, I’m all for just kicking his ass out—I honestly can’t stand to look at him anymore.”

“Well, maybe we can fix that, too,” Jeff says, rubbing his lady’s palm.

“Make him wear a ski mask!” Eva repeats, causing her sister to chortle.

“We could do that,” Jeff drawls. “Or, I have another idea.”

My insides turn cold as I suspect where this conversation is headed.

“What’s that?” Dawn sucks her cigarette.

Jeff glances at his daughters. “Girls, you want to go upstairs for a minute?”

Eva throws up her hands. “Why?”

“Because he said so,” Dawn snaps.

With annoyed sighs, Peyton and Eva stomp up the stairway.

After the girls are out of earshot, Jeff explains: “Baby, if you don’t want to look at this little bitch anymore, let’s turn him into someone else. Make him a woman, like we used to do in the joint. You won’t recognize him.”

Dawn cocks her head. “You mean like one of them prison bitches?”

“Yeah, exactly that.” Jeff stubs out his cigarette. “When I was in the joint, we had a bunch of them guys, and with some of ‘em, you couldn’t even tell they were guys. And that was done with just the shit they could pull together inside; Kool-Aid for makeup, bug spray on their lips to make ‘em swell up. With all the medical stuff out here, it wouldn’t take much to turn this little pansy into a completely different person.” He grabs Dawn’s hand. “Remember on the rooftop, how one of the things you said you always wanted to have was a maid?”

Dawn scoffs. “You talking about turning Lou into a goddamn maid?”

“Hell, yeah. Why not?”

“I dunno, Jeff,” Dawn muses. “I could’ve hired a maid if I’d wanted one before the faggot lost his job. That was just something we talked about when we were kids … we talked about a lot of crazy shit up there. And if I DID get a maid, I wouldn’t want it to be this piece of shit. You got all that money; why not just hire a goddamn maid if you want one?”

“Because it’s so much more fun this way.” Jeff’s eyes dance. “You know how I am, baby—I’m an evil motherfucker!”

“Yeah, that much I do know.” Dawn takes three quick, final puffs of her cigarette before crushing out the butt in the ashtray. “What would we tell the girls?”

Jeff shrugs. “That Lou decided to come out as trans.”

I start to say something, but all that comes out is a croak.

“You got a problem, Louise?” Jeff dares me with his glare.

I stare at my shoes.

Dawn snorts. “What a little bitch.”

“That’s exactly what he is.” Jeff takes Dawn by the hands and searches her eyes. “So, what do you say? He’ll be a whole different person. You won’t even recognize him—and it’ll be fun.”

Dawn sighs and looks away. Jeff turns with her, so that his face is inches from hers. He raises his eyebrows and blinks innocently three times, turning on the charm like only he can. “What do you say, baby?”

My beloved wife shakes her head and chuckles. “You’re one crazy sonofabitch, you know that?”

Chapter 8: A New Beginning​

There’s a grain of rice stuck in the tiny crevice between the kitchen wall and the counter, and it’s pissing me off. I try to dig it out with my fingernail but the little motherfucker won’t budge. With a frustrated groan, I pull myself to my feet and retrieve a toothpick from the cabinet drawer. It does the job in a jiffy.

I savor the small victory. They’re few and far between these days.

Victory, my ass. A real man wouldn’t have needed a toothpick—and a real man wouldn’t allow someone to turn him into a fucking sissy.

I keep beating myself up. I wish I had the courage to escape the terrifying future Jeff has mapped out for me. But here I am. Worrying about a goddamn grain of rice because I want the kitchen to be nice and clean for people who won’t even notice.

The whole world seems upside down now. I haven’t slept since Jeff dropped his bomb two nights ago, announcing his plan to turn me into a transgendered maid making a lousy hundred bucks a month—even less with fines, and I’m sure there’ll be lots of them.

I still can’t believe Dawn agreed to this deal, since she’s so hopelessly homophobic. When Hawkman first told me about Jeff’s proclivity in prison for turning weaklings into Bandit Bitches, I wondered how my wife would react if she ever found out. Now I know. Her king can do no wrong—especially when he has two million bucks to go along with those rugged good looks, that swagger and the howitzer he packs in his jeans.

Dawn has everything she ever wanted now. It breaks my heart knowing that she would throw me to the curb without giving it a second thought, and that the only reason I’m still here is to fulfill Jeff’s sadistic appetites. He’s a bully, that’s all there is to it. The bastard has spent his entire life pushing people around as a member of an outlaw motorcycle gang; all his stories are about kicking guys’ asses or making the cops look like fools. He loves not only having power over others, but rubbing their faces in it. That was obvious from the moment he showed up on our doorstep with his smirk and snide little remarks. For Jeff, someone always has to serve as the clown, the victim, the butt of the joke. And now that he’s not running with the Bandits anymore, I suppose he needs an outlet for his cruelty.

That’s where I come in.

Dawn and the girls feed off it. They always were bitchy to me, but lately it’s gotten ridiculous. Petyon and Eva have been particularly mean since their father told them I now work for them, and have to do whatever they say. They also hold the purse strings, and I found out yesterday how humiliating it can be to have to beg my stepdaughters for money.

Jeff told me he was in the mood for tacos, and he sent me to the store to get the ingredients. But when I turned on the minivan, I saw that the gas tank was on dead-empty with the warning light flashing. My wallet was empty, too, other than pictures of my wife, the kids and my late mom, so I turned off the ignition and plodded back into the house.

Dawn and Jeff looked up from the TV when I approached the couch.

“You need something?” she snarled in her usual nasty tone.

“Um, could I please have a couple bucks? The minivan’s on empty; the red light’s on … and I need money for the tacos.”

Jeff shrugged. “What are you asking us for? I done told you: Peyton and Eva are in charge of your money. I gave them cash for the day-to-day stuff you need; go ask them.”

With my pulse pounding, I headed upstairs and knocked on Peyton’s open door. She had her earbuds in, so I waved my hand to get her attention.

“What?” she asked with a frown after turning her music off.

I ran my tongue along the roof of my mouth. “Um … your dad wants tacos for dinner, and I have to go to the store …”

“So?”

“Um, well … um, the minivan is on empty, and I need … uh, money for gas. And the groceries.”

Peyton’s lips twitched, and I could tell she was drinking in her newfound power. “I dunno … how much do you need, Louise?”

“I … um, at least forty bucks; twenty to put in the tank, to get around for the next few days.”

“Yeah? Forty bucks?”

“Um, yeah.”

“Beg for it.”

My jaw dropped. “What?”

“I said beg for it.”

With my vocal cords trembling, I clasped my hands. “Please, can I have forty dollars? Please?”

“It’s not begging if you’re not kneeling.”

By the time my knees hit the carpet, there were tears welling in my eyes. I again put my hands together as if I was praying to the Petroleum Goddess. “Please, can I have forty dollars?”

Peyton smirked, marched to her nightstand and dug in her purse. After pulling out two twenty-dollar bills, she tossed them in the air, and we both watched them flutter to the floor.

“Thank you, thank you,” I gushed as I scooped up the money, my ears beet-red.

So, all’s well that ends well; I gassed up the minivan, drove to the store, Jeff got his tacos—and Peyton got her kicks making me abase myself.

Like father like daughter.

I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to this crazy new normal. I thought I had it bad before.

But at least I just showed that grain of rice who’s boss!

^^^^^^^^^^^^^​

Buoyed by my victory over the rice menace, I’m now tackling the cobwebs under the stove. I realize nobody’s ever going to look under there, but doing a good job cleaning is one of the few things I can take pride in these days.

A delicate knock on the front door interrupts my self-mollycoddling. I rise, head to the entranceway and peek through the window. It’s a thin woman holding a package. Oh shit—she’s wearing a maid’s outfit. My pulse quickens.

“Um, can I help you?” I ask after opening the door.

“I’m here to see Louise.”

My shoulders slump. I take a second look. This is no woman.

“Um, yeah,” I mumble. “T-that’s me.”

“I’m Darla … I belong to Spider Joe. I’ve been told to come help you.”

I step aside to let him in. I notice his mincing steps and wonder if I’ll end up walking like that someday, too.

“Is your master home?” Darla asks.

“Um, no, the whole family went out to eat.”

“Oh, well, I need to talk to him about scheduling the appointment. My master talked the doctor, and he has an opening next week. I guess that can wait until later—let’s get started here.”

“Um, the … the doctor has an opening? What doctor? An opening for what?”

“Your operations, honey.” Darla smiles, unzips the bag and pulls out four maid’s outfits—three that look like fancy motel housekeeper uniforms, identical to his, and a flouncy, fluffy, ridiculous-looking getup with a skirt that I can already tell will barely cover my ass-cheeks.

“I have to wear that?” I bleat.

“We all do.”

My mouth falls open. “We all? Who’s we all?”

“All the Bandit Bitches. We wear those when we serve the parties, or whenever else our masters want us to wear them.”

“What parties?”

“Bandit parties.” Darla chuckles. “Poor thing, your master didn’t tell you anything, did he?”

I shake my head. “What … who is this doctor?”

“Dr. Ott; he met my master in Northtown Prison, after he got busted for tax evasion. He’s a plastic surgeon—he does all the Bandit Bitches.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “How … how many are there?”

“Bandit Bitches? You’re number twelve—at least out here. There are probably double that still in prison. Maybe more.”

“Is that where you met … um, your master?”

“Yes; I was in for cocaine possession, even though it was my older brother’s coke in the car.”

“And he turned you into a Bandit Bitch?”

Darla nods. “Yes,” he whispers, and I can tell he’s still embarrassed by the memory.

And now, I’m at the same stage he was back then—about to be transformed into a sissy against my will. I guess it’s not literally against my will, since I can walk away any time I want to. But I’m long past wondering why I stay and put up with this shit. At this point, I’m just trying to survive each day.

I’m dying to know more. “So … um, what operations are they gonna do to me?”

Darla chuckles. “If you’re wondering if you’ll get to keep your twig and berries, honey, don’t worry—they don’t want to turn us into women. They prefer to keep us as sissies.”

My fellow beta sees that I have more questions, so he continues: “You’ll be getting breast implants like mine, although I don’t know if your master wants you to have bigger boobs or not. Some of the Bandits like their sissies to have huge ones; poor Boom-Boom is a size fifty. I don’t know how he carries those things around. Oh, and your master said he wants your face totally redone, so you can’t be recognized. Some of the Bandits prefer their bitches to look more like sissies than women, but you’re apparently up for a total facial reconstruction.”

My eyes fill with tears. “Yeah, my wife says she can’t stand to look at me anymore; that’s the reason Jeff proposed changing me in the first place.”

Darla glances around nervously. “Damn it, Louise, don’t EVER let anyone ever hear you refer to your master by his first name,” he says with abject fear in his voice. “And don’t call her your wife! The Bandits don’t mess around when it comes to disrespect.”

“But Je…um, my … my master isn’t in the Bandits anymore. He’s retired.”

“Bandits never retire.” Darla shakes his head. “Poor thing, you’ve got so much to learn. Don’t worry, honey; I’ll help you. I’ll give you my cell number, and you can call whenever you have questions. The number one thing you have to remember, aside from the fact that you’re a Bandit Bitch now, is that you need to keep your business the club a secret. Including being a Bandit Bitch.”

“W-why?”

He looked at me askew. “Do you really need to ask? The club doesn’t want anyone knowing about us, because if we get stopped by the cops, they won’t make the connection. Your master will tell who he wants to tell, but otherwise, keep your mouth shut about being a Bandit Bitch. Now, enough yapping—I need to get you fixed up and get back to my housework. I’m already gonna be up till after midnight because of you. Now, strip.”

“Um, what?”

“I said strip. I need to see if you need to shave yourself or not.”

“I … I’m smooth,” I say, with shame in my voice.

“I need to see. Strip.”

It feels funny taking orders from a sissy maid, but I comply, knowing there’ll be dire consequences if I don’t.

When I’m naked, Darla smiles. “Nope, you’re a true sissy—no hair. And you’ve got little breasts already” He giggles and points to my crotch. “That pubic hair will have to go, though. You can shave that later; I’ve got to get you fixed up. Let’s start with the makeup.”

He reaches in the bag he brought and retrieves a smaller satchel. As he pulls out a curly brown wig, lipstick, mascara, and other items, I begin to tremble.

“Aw, are you okay, honey?” Darla seems genuinely concerned as he applies a dab of rouge to my cheeks and rubs it in circles.

“I don’t want to do this!” I wail, my eyes starting to leak.

“I know you don’t, honey—none of us did. It’s always hard the first time.” He stops his rubbing. “Although you’re one of the few who’s doing it voluntarily.”

“You mean I’m not the only one who met their … um, masters in prison?”

“Oh, no, Fifi’s in the same kind of situation you are—his master, Tommy, stole his wife from him and turned him into a Bandit Bitch. And Wilma’s master, Toe-Joe, used to be his bully in school, and when he ran into him years later, he turned him out and had him get the operation. But, yeah, most of us got this way in prison.”

“Dr. Ott did the operations in prison?”

“No, he did what he could while he was in there, but he didn’t have the equipment.” Darla added a bit more rouge to my cheek. “We got the operations out here after he got paroled; he has a clinic in his basement.”

“But … if you guys are out of prison, why don’t you just run away? Go somewhere and hide?”

Darla’s eyes darken. “You don’t run from the Bandits,” he says. “A few people tried. Let’s just say they’re no longer with us.”

There’s a chilly silence for the next several minutes as this downtrodden pansy continues making me up. When he’s finished, I barely recognize myself, and wonder how drastic the change will be once I have my operations.

“Lovely,” Darla says, smiling at her handiwork. “I think your master is going to be pleased.”

“The question is whether my wife will be pleased,” I reply.

“Damn it, Louise, you really need to stop referring to people who are above you like that. She’s not your wife; she’s your mistress. And your master isn’t Jeff—he’s Master.”

“You mean I have to call him ‘Master?’ And Dawn ‘Mistress?’”

“Yeah, if you want to keep your teeth, that’s what I would suggest. I told you—there’s a whole protocol, and the Bandits hate nothing worse than disrespect. You’ve got a lot to learn, honey. But don’t worry. I’m here to help you. Now, let’s see if those outfits fit. And then you’re gonna need to go get a notepad, so you can write down all the rules you’ll have to memorize.”

Chapter 9: The Reveal​

The headlights shine through the living room window, with the glow playing across the walls before sliding to a stop. I smooth my apron and fiddle with the hem of my dress.

Here we go. Showtime. I’ve been humiliated before. I can get through this. I can get through this. I can get through this …

The girls are chattering about something, although I can’t make out what they’re saying, because it’s drowned out by my pulse pounding in my ears. I try to draw a breath but my lungs freeze up on me. A pathetic little peep escapes my lips as keys jingle and the front door swings open.

“OMG, he looks just like a real maid!” is the first thing anyone says, with Eva pointing at me with one hand and the other one covering her mouth.

“Whoo-WEE, Louise, you’s a sexy little thang,” Jeff crows with a smirk.

Dawn’s face scrunches up. “Ugh, he’s fucking disgusting.”

“Why, Ma?” Eva shrugs. “He looks just like a woman. Isn’t that what you wanted? You can hardly even tell it’s him.”

“I can,” my wife snaps. “The little faggot. Where’s your goddamn mask?”

I curtsey, causing the girls to titter and Jeff to leer. “I … um, Darla said I shouldn’t wear it because it might mess up my makeup.”

“Darla?” Dawn’s eyes narrow. “Who the hell is Darla? And what’s up with the faggoty curtsey thing?”

“Um, I’m sorry, Mistress, but that’s one of the new rules.”

“Mistress? Rules?” Dawn lights a Salem and glares at her lover. “What the fuck is going on, Jeff?”

Jeff rubs his hand over his mouth and nods toward his daughters. “Um, can we talk alone for a minute?”

Dawn glowers at her kids. “Go upstairs, you two.”

Peyton huffs. “Why, Ma?”

“Because I said so.”

Jeff watches both girls stomp up the steps with black clouds hovering over their heads. When they’re out of sight, he reaches in his pocket and pulls out a packet.

“Do a line?”

Dawn sighs and looks off to the side. “Sure, why not?”

Jeff goes through the routine of laying out rails for his lady and him, and they each snort the yayo through a rolled-up Benjamin.

After his rush subsides, Jeff lights another Marlboro, with the first cigarette still burning in the ashtray.

“Remember when I told you a lot of the guys had Bandit Bitches in the joint making money for them?”

“Yeah?” Dawn’s question is laced with suspicion.

“Well, it ain’t just in prison. The gang has Bandit Bitches outside, too. Darla’s one. The club uses them to make money. A LOT of money. I figure this little bitch can make us some money, too.”

“Fuck him.” Dawn glances at me and snarls. “You already got money, babe.”

“Yeah, but that two million ain’t gonna last forever, Dawn. We really need to have some kind of income coming in.”

I feel like I’m about to puke, but I swallow it back.

“How’s he gonna make money?” Dawn pulls at her frozen nose. “He can’t find a job as it is; he sure ain’t gonna find one dressed like a faggot.”

“I done told you—the gang has Bandit Bitches outside, doing the same shit they do in prison: Running drugs, turning tricks.”

Dawn’s upper lip curls. “Eww, you mean he’d be sucking dick, and getting fucked in the ass?”

“Hell, yeah, he’s a faggot, ain’t he?” Jeff puffs his cigarette and sneers at me. “This one will pull in good money for us—and you won’t have to see any of it, baby. He’ll turn tricks in motels, and he’ll never bring any big weight home. That’s the beauty of it. The little bitches do all the work and take all the risk. And they work for nothing. It’s a hundred percent profit for the club.”

Dawn shakes her head. “When did the Bandits start doing all this faggot shit? I know they always sold dope and had girls working for them, but I don’t remember any fags back in the day.”

“Oh, the Bandits always had bitches making money for them in the joint, but it really started getting big while I was in,” Jeff explains. “Now, we’ve got a bunch of the bitches working for us on the outside, too. The club kind of keeps them a secret, so if they get busted, the cops can’t connect them to us. That’s why I told the girls to go upstairs; I don’t want them knowing anything about any of this.”

I notice that he doesn’t tell Dawn that he was a big reason for the explosion in this illegal Bandit Bitch RICO operation. He’s acting like it just sort of happened out of the blue, when in fact, according to Hawkman, he was the driving force.

I also notice Jeff’s manipulation of Dawn through cocaine; her eyes light up as he taps out another measure of the powder and arranges four more lines with his driver’s license.

After they snort their rails, Jeff leans over and kisses his lady like they do in the movies, running his hands through her hair. Coke obviously makes her horny, because she immediately responds with a quivering moan and a grab at her lover’s crotch.

More manipulation by the evil bastard. Like Hawkman said: Jeff finds people’s weak spots. Dawn’s weak spot is him. And his big dick.

When the kiss breaks, Jeff takes a few final puffs of his cigarette and stubs it out in the ashtray. “So, what do you say, baby? Want to put this faggot to work? The Bandits get ten percent of his tricks, but he’ll make us a couple thou a week, at least. And that’s not counting our cut from the dope runs, which is another few thou a month. All cash money, and we don’t have to do shit, other than collect it.”

Dawn looks at me like I’m a turd on her shoe. “Ugh, I guess that makes sense—might as well get some use out of the little queer. But I don’t want him sleeping in my house, even if it is just the garage. Can’t we make him go to a homeless shelter or something?”

“Well, I’d like to have him close by in case I need anything,” Jeff replies, eying me up and down. “How about that shed out back? He can sleep in there.”

My beloved princess nods. “That’s fine. But what do we tell the girls?”

“We can just tell them he’s doing jobs for the Bandits to make extra money, and leave it at that,” Jeff says. “They don’t need to know any more details.” He grins at his lady. “Only a select few people outside the club know about the Bandit Bitches, so you should feel honored.”

Dawn chuckles and punches her lover’s arm. “You love that damn club, don’t you?”

“The Bandits? Shit, baby, the Bandits are in my blood. I’d give my life for them motherfuckers. You know that.”

“Well, that may be, but I’m glad you ain’t running with ‘em anymore,” she says. “I love all those guys, too, especially Hawkman, but I don’t need all that crazy shit in my life anymore—and I don’t need you spending all your time with them like you did back in the day. That was one of the reasons we broke up in the first damn place.”

“Bullshit, we broke up over money—and I got plenty of that now.”

“No, part of it was you spending too much time with them damn Bandits.” Dawn shakes a cigarette from the pack and looks inside. “The girls need you here now, Jeff. So do I.”

“Don’t worry, baby—you know I gotta hang with my brothers, no matter what, but I promise I won’t ever neglect my girls again—any of my girls.” He kisses Dawn’s forehead. “I’m an emeritus member now, so I don’t have to spend too much time with ‘em. But I still got to show up for some things. Shit, you guys can go with me if you want. Come to more fish fries and shit. The girls had a ball.”

“Well, I kind of don’t want them hanging around the club too much,” Dawn says, lighting her Salem. “Once in a while is fine, but the Bandits do some pretty bad shit, and I don’t want—”

“I get it, baby,” Jeff cuts her off. “I agree; I don’t want my girls getting involved too much of the shit that goes on in the club.”

Dawn picks up her cigarette pack and again peeps inside before scowling up at me. “I’m almost out of smokes; go to the store and get me two packs.”

“Yes, Mistress.” I curtsey.

“Ugh, don’t do that faggot shit around me—and don’t call me, ‘Mistress,’” Dawn snarls.

“Well, all the Bandit Bitches have to do that,” Jeff explains. “And he has to call me, ‘Master.’ Right, Louise?”

I curtsey again. “Y-yes, Master.”

“There’s a whole protocol. If he got caught not curtseying or addressing someone properly, he’d get the shit beat out of him for disrespecting a club member.”

Dawn couldn’t look more repulsed. “Well, he can do whatever he has to do when he’s with the club, but I don’t want that fag shit in my house. I don’t want the girls seeing any of that shit.”

“What shit, baby? He’s just acting like a maid would.”

My wife looks deep into her man’s eyes. “Damn, baby, I never knew you liked all this faggot shit so much.”

Jeff’s expression is frightening as he prepares more lines of coke. “It ain’t the faggot shit I like, baby—it’s making these little bitches have to do it. Turning ‘em into something they don’t want to be—but they’re too goddamn wimpy to do anything about it. I fucking love that shit. It’s a fucking rush, man.”

“Yeah, you always was a bully.” Dawn guffaws, watching Jeff’s actions like a hawk, obviously eager to do more coke. Then, she looks up and sees me watching her.

“Didn’t I just tell you to go to the fucking store? What are you doing still standing there?”

I start to curtsey but check myself. “Um, okay.”

After taking two steps toward the front door, it occurs to me that I don’t have any money. With a sigh, I tramp up the stairs, wondering whether I should ask Peyton or Eva for cash. Peyton’s not quite as snotty as her little sister, but the last time I asked Peyton for money, she made me kneel and beg for it. In the end, I figure I’m still better off asking her, though, since I have no idea what crazy shit Eva will have me do.

Drawing a breath, I knock on the oldest sister’s door, and she asks what I want. Without being asked, I drop to my knees and clasp my hands.

“Please, can I have twenty dollars, so I can get your mom a couple packs of cigarettes.” My wife would probably be pissed about me being on my knees, since she wants to keep “that shit” away from home—but I know already that’s what her daughter wants, since she made me do it last time I asked for money.

“What did you guys talk about downstairs?” Peyton demands.

“Um … uh … I’m not supposed to say, sorry.”

“Pfft. Then, fuck you—I ain’t giving you any money.”

“Please, your mom needs cigarettes.”

Peyton rolls her eyes. “Fine. Then smack yourself.”

“Um, what?”

“You heard me, maid: Smack yourself. In the face. Hard as you can.”

Closing my eyes, I do as I’m told with a vicious self-inflicted blow that causes me to black out for a second before all sorts of weird shapes and patterns float by.

“Do it again. Harder.”

Still on my knees, I hit myself a second time and cry out from the pain.

“You’re such a loser,” she snorts before reaching in her purse and, once again, tossing the bill up in the air and watching it flit downward. I scoot forward on my knees to retrieve the money.

Peyton scoffs. “You messed up your makeup, Louise. Better go fix it.”

Chapter 10: The New Abnormal​

The homely, old woman in line ahead of me at the 7Eleven is dressed funny and smells like Pine Sol. I wonder if the frat boy punks who are loitering near the front of the store are laughing at her or me—the fidgety, little sissy in a maid’s dress.

The answer comes when Pine Sol Lady pays for her purchases and shuffles past the hoodlums, who guffaw and make snide remarks about her outfit. I’m further convinced that my cover is working when the clerk calls me “Ma’am” and doesn’t bat an eye when I ask for two packs of Salems. My voice is already girly to start with, so thanks to Mother Nature and Darla’s makeup magic, everyone in the store thinks I’m some motel maid stopping to get cigarettes.

Apparently, I make an attractive female, because as I pass the cocky pricks up front, one of them smirks and says, “Ooh la-la, I’d like to see you in one of them little French maid’s outfits.”

“Hell, yeah, baby—you can come clean my house anytime!” another guy catcalls.

They actually think I’m a girl!

I feel a pinch on my ass-cheek and look over my shoulder to see one of the assholes leering at me. “How about we get to know each other better, sweetheart?” he purrs, moving in closer. I can smell the alcohol on his breath as he starts to wrap his arms around me.

I wiggle away and dash outside, chased by the sound of soul-crushing laughter.

As I sit in my car in the 7Eleven parking lot crying my eyes out, I can’t bring myself to look in the rearview mirror. I’m so fucking embarrassed by what just happened—that prick treated me like a piece of meat! As a man, I’d always wanted to be sexually desired. Now it feels like a curse.

I finally manage to glance up and confront my reflection through watery eyes.

You need to pull yourself together. Yeah, that asshole just got handsy; take it as a compliment. There’s nothing else you can do about it anyway. This is who you are now. Get used to it. Get used to it. Get used to it.

Not too long ago, I was a talented tech guy who solved problems. I must have saved my company millions of dollars during my career there. I was a husband; sure, I was a cuckolded, henpecked husband—but I was a husband, goddamn it. A devoted stepdad. A pillar of the community who supported his family and was always seen helping out at school bake sales and soccer games.

Now I’m a maid—and, to a certain motorcycle gang, I’m also a Bandit Bitch. Soon, barring some miracle, I’ll be adding “transgendered **********” and “drug mule” to my resume.

Get used to it. In a few weeks, having your ass grabbed by some scumbag in the 7Eleven will seem like nothing.

With a lump in my throat, I recall the first rule Darla had me write down:

“You are now a Bandit Bitch. You must put the club above all else, including your own life. You will serve the Bandits until you are no longer deemed useful to the club. This is a lifetime commitment.”

The second rule covered secrecy; I’m not supposed to talk about being a Bandit Bitch to anyone outside the club and the select few who are told about us. That’s obviously why Jeff told his daughters to leave the room the other day when he discussed Bandit Bitch business with Dawn: He doesn’t want the girls blabbing to their friends. Darla told me the operation is hush-hush, because the Bandits don’t want the cops knowing about their network of drug-smuggling, trick-turning sissies. That way, if a Bandit Bitch gets arrested for ************ or trafficking large quantities of drugs, there’s no way to link him to the club.

The Bandits apparently run a tight ship, and protocol is obviously a top priority. Many of the rules I jotted down involve things like curtseying, how to address my “betters,” and banned phrases like “No,” “I can’t” and “I won’t.”

The whole thing sounds like a goddamn cult to me—and Jeff is apparently the ringleader, the guy who started it all. Looking back, it’s now clear that the rapid changes in my life didn’t just happen organically; the motherfucker completely orchestrated my downfall and transformation into a Bandit Bitch. As Hawkman said, Jeff has a real gift for reading people, and he’s able to use his playful charm and good looks to get what he wants—and if those don’t work, he always has his fists.

So, after he reappeared in Dawn’s life and saw what a pussy I was, he obviously began scheming to get her back and turn me into a transgendered money-making slave for him and his beloved Bandits. He introduced the idea to Dawn slowly, and while she’s still repulsed by the notion of me becoming a gay **********, she’s going along with Jeff’s rotten plan to make him happy, as long as her kids aren’t ******* to any of the heavier stuff.

Unfortunately for me, because Dawn hates me so much now, she doesn’t want me sleeping anywhere near her, including my current quarters in the attached garage. So, I’ve been banished to the fucking toolshed. I already know sleeping out there is really going to suck, especially when it’s cold.

But the worst part about being exiled is knowing that it was a compromise, because Dawn initially suggested I crash in some homeless shelter. Actually, she would much rather just hire a female maid and have me out of her life altogether, and she obviously wants to have as little contact with me as possible. During all our years together, even though she treated me like dirt, I always got the sense that she at least wanted me around, if only because I was making good money and served as a whipping boy who’d put up with her shit. But now, the mere sight of me sends her into a rage.

Maybe it’ll get better after my operations. Jeff told her it would—but what if it doesn’t?

I feel totally lost, like I don’t have a friend in the world, so as I’m driving home from the 7Eleven, I dial Darla’s cellphone. He answers on the third ring.

“Hi, Louise. Everything okay?”

“Er, can you talk?”

“Just for a minute. I’m on my way to a client’s apartment, and I’m almost there. I’m running way behind—my master sent over a last-minute client a few hours ago, and he took a lot longer than he usually does.”

“Oh, sorry, I just … I just needed someone to talk to.”

“What’s wrong, honey? You sound sad.”

My bottom lip quivers. “I … I am sad. I’m sorry … this is just so much. I don’t … I don’t want to … s-see clients. Become a … pros … prosti … I don’t want to do this! I’m not gay!”

Darla’s exhale comes in loud and clear through the car’s speaker. “Aw. Poor, poor Louise. I know it’s hard, honey, but you’ve got to stop this kind of talk, you hear? You’re only gonna cause yourself a bunch of needless grief. You’re a Bandit Bitch now, honey. And the Bandits don’t care if we’re gay or not—what we like or don’t like means nothing to them. Don’t you understand? We’re here to make money for the club … and for whatever else they want us to do.”

My eyes bulge out as I try to hold the steering wheel straight. “L-l-l-like what? What else am I gonna have to do?”

“I told you the other day: We all have Service Days, where we take turns cleaning the clubhouse, and doing whatever. That’s once a month or so. We belong to our masters and mistresses, but we’re also property of the club. The club gets ten percent of whatever we make turning tricks, and our masters get a cut of the … um, other proceeds. Listen, Louise, I don’t like talking about this stuff over the phone.”

“Um, you started to say something the other day about us having to serve Bandit parties? And … um … we have to wear those outfits? The skimpy ones?”

Darla sighs. “Yes, Louise, we have to serve private Bandit parties in those skimpy outfits. The club has public events like fish fries and keggers—we don’t serve those. I told you the other day: Most people outside the club, and even the junior members, don’t even know about us. So, they have all the parties and other events that are accessible to most members, and some stuff for the club and their families—but those private parties are for the inner circle only, and they’re pretty bad, Louise. I’m just telling you now, so you’ll be prepared. We’ve got a party scheduled in two weeks, and all the Bandit Bitches have to attend. You too.”

“Wha-wha-wha-what do you mean, they’re bad?” I’m trembling violently now and having a hard time driving. “What goes on at these things?”

“I don’t want to scare you, honey. Let’s just say some of those guys are pretty sadistic—and the women are even worse. Don’t worry, they only have three or four of those parties a year. You’ll hurt for a few weeks, but if you’re able to take it, it’ll make your master proud. And, listen, you really don’t want to embarrass your master at a Bandit party, now, Louise, I can tell you that. I’ve seen it happen, and the poor sissies …” He lets the thought trail off.

I’m scared shitless now, unable to ask the million more questions I have.

After a second of silence, Darla sighs. “I’m sorry, honey, but I’m coming up on my client’s building now, and I really have to get up there. We can talk later, okay? Hang in there, Louise. You’ll be alright. Just remember: You’re a Bandit Bitch now. Okay?”

“Um … yeah.

“Okay, honey, gotta run. Bye.”

He hangs up as I’m sitting at a red light. I’m absolutely gobsmacked—I’d called Darla for a word of encouragement, but instead of lifting my spirits, he’s got me pissing my panties.

As I wait for the light to change, I eye the sign that points to the interstate. The freedom road.

Go! Turn right!!! There’s a quarter-tank of gas—drive until the minivan conks out and start over. Begin anew. Go!!!! Turn right!!!

A man in a Beemer behind me honks his horn. The light is green. With a resigned sigh, I lift off the brake and drive forward.

The shitty taste in my mouth tastes shittier when I spot Melissa’s purple Jeep parked in the driveway. Since there’s nowhere to park, I nose the minivan to a curbside spot.

I know Dawn wants her cigarettes asap, but I need to sit here for just a few more minutes to gather myself. Melissa has never seen me in drag, so I’m bracing for yet more humiliation.

“OMG, look at the little faggot!” is how I’m greeted by our houseguest after I’m finally able to muster the courage to move. Melissa gives me the once-over. “It don’t even look like him.”

“I know!” Eva seconds. “Mom says she can still tell it’s him, but I think it’s all in her head, because he doesn’t look anything like Lou.”

“I’ll show you what’s all in my head, you little smart-ass!” Dawn snaps at her youngest daughter, in a bad mood as always when the topic is me. “Don’t get cute.”

Melissa looks me up and down with the world’s most sickening smirk. “I always knew you was a faggot, Lou.” She sniffs toward Jeff. “I just didn’t think you went in for this kind of shit.”

Jeff shrugs and spouts the lie that he and my wife cooked up: “What? Dawn said she didn’t want to look at him anymore, so when she told me he’d always secretly wanted to be trans, I thought it made for a perfect solution.”

“Why not just throw his ass out like Dawn wants to?” Melissa slurs, and it’s obvious her blunt question is fueled by alcohol. It’s also obvious my wife has confided in her bestie about wanting me gone, and Jeff’s desire to keep me around.

“Because this is the perfect solution.” Jeff lights a smoke. “Sure, we could just send his ass on down the road and hire a maid—because Dawn and my daughters damn sure ain’t gonna be cleaning. But that costs money, and the two million I got ain’t gonna last forever. I talked to Hawkman, and the Bandits are gonna hire Louise to do odd jobs for them under-the-table—help out in Smokey’s garage, wash the bikes. He’ll get twenty an hour, and we’ll work his ass twelve, thirteen hours a day, and then he can come back here and clean when he’s done.”

“And Louise only gets paid a hundred a month,” Peyton explains. “Although he won’t be getting all his money next month; my dad fined him twenty bucks for taking his mask off.”

Melissa cracks up. “He gets fined?”

“We must keep the maid on his toes, and fines do the trick,” Jeff replies in a snooty English accent, which makes his daughters laugh.

My wife’s friend shakes her head. “Damn, Lou, and you’re gonna stick around and put up with this shit? Dawn says she’s got you sleeping out in the damn shed? What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“He’s a little bitch, that’s what’s wrong with him,” Jeff answers for me.

Melissa snorts. “Shit, I’ve known that all along.”

“Well, like I said, this is the perfect solution: He gets to be who he is, and we get a steady income. And a clean house.”

“The perfect solution would be me never having to look at the little queer.” Dawn glares at me. “Did you get my damn cigarettes?”

I nod and step forward, the movement causing a puff of wind to drift up my dress and tickle my nylons. My wife snatches the two packs of smokes from my grip as I fumble in the pocket of my apron and remove the change leftover from my purchase: A dollar-twenty-five, which I hand to Peyton.

“Where’s the receipt?” she snaps.

“Um … I … sorry, I didn’t keep it.”

“Then how do I know you didn’t keep some of the money for yourself?”

“I … I …” I glance over at the smirking Jeff.

“She’s got a good point, Louise,” he says. “Didn’t I tell you the girls are responsible for handling the money from now on?”

“Um … yeah.”

“Well, I’m trying to teach them about finances, and keeping receipts is part of that.”

Peyton tsks. “I say we fine him.”

“Good idea, hon.” Jeff cocks his head. “How much are you thinking?”

“Twenty bucks?”

“Twenty it is,” Jeff replies. “Dang, Louise, how much is your cellphone bill?”

“Um … sixty dollars.”

“Well, shit, I ain’t great at math, but it sounds to me like the rest of your allowance next month is gonna be paying off your fines,” he says.

I hang my head.

“That’s okay, Louise,” he sings in a mirthful tone. “What do you need extra money for, anyway?”

Eva leans forward. “What if he gets another fine, Dad?”

“I guess he’s fucked,” Jeff replies, prompting everyone but Dawn (and me) to chortle.

My wife’s face is still twisted with disgust. “Go get me a Diet Coke and then get the fuck out of my face.”

As I move to obey, Jeff reminds me, “It’s moving day, Louise—take your shit out to the shed.”

Melissa scoffs. “I still can’t believe he’s gonna do it. Can you imagine sleeping in a damn toolshed?”

Jeff leans forward and crushes his cigarette butt in the ashtray. “Aw, come on, now. Louise couldn’t be happier—could you, Louise? Ain’t you happy with how everything turned out?”

Blinking back tears, I nod and scurry to fetch Dawn’s soda.

Chapter 11: Orientation​

There’s some kind of black-and-red bug crawling across the shed roof, and I contemplate whether to kill it or not. In the end, I decide to let it live. It’s not that I’m feeling particularly charitable; in fact, I’m in a shitty mood, and have a strong urge to snuff the little bastard out to get my revenge against the shitty world. I’m just too goddamn exhausted to move after a long, grueling day of work yesterday, and a hard night on this unforgiving bed of concrete. And so, the insect gets to live another day.

Another day. In another day, that bug will still be crawling around, but my world will be completely upside down.

It’s funny how the mind works; my operations are scheduled for tomorrow, and I should be quaking in fear right now—but all I can think of is how nice it will be to lie on a soft mattress for a change. This concrete slab out here in the shed is even worse than the garage floor. I tried using a spare tire as a bed, but it was impossible to curl up on it and get comfortable, and it didn’t work as a pillow, either. I ended up hugging the damn thing all night, trying to keep warm; I’d put it on top of me until it got too heavy, and then embrace it like a rubber lover. Jeff let me bring my blanket from the garage, but it doesn’t come close to doing the job. And this is only springtime; how am I supposed to survive out here in the winter?

That’s a problem I’ll have to deal with down the road. I have more immediate concerns, starting with the little matter of having my body surgically altered. I only found out about the operations yesterday, when Jeff informed me that I’d need to fast all day today. I guess I’m not important enough to be looped in on exactly which operations I’m going to get, and I’m scared to ask. All I know is, Darla said I’d probably be getting breast implants, and Jeff wants my face completely altered, so Dawn won’t be able to recognize me.

That’s what he claims, anyway, although I wonder if it isn’t more of his bullshit. That was probably just his excuse to turn me into a Bandit Bitch, because I don’t think any operation is ever going to make Dawn accept me. Whether I’m recognizable to her or not, she’ll probably always see me as nothing more than a pathetic “fag.” She’s embarrassed that she married me, and having me around reminds her of how stupid she was to have settled for a man who admitted he was “a little bitch.”

When Jeff made me call myself that in front of her in the bedroom last week, it broke a vessel. Looking back, that was probably part of Jeff’s plan, too: If Dawn despises me, then she won’t care what the Bandits do to me. Not that she would have given much of a shit before all this, but now, I think she’ll actually be happy if the gang destroys me.

The prospect of me bringing in money is probably the only thing keeping me here. The same thing could be said for our marriage in the first place, although Dawn no longer treats me with disdain like she once did—these days, she’s downright hostile. She literally doesn’t want me anywhere near her. I put her in a bad mood by merely existing.

This total rejection by the woman I adore is eating me up inside—and it’s making me want her more than ever.

Ugh. Maybe the operations will have an effect; who knows? Perhaps Dawn will soften up a bit after my physical transformation, and the divorce papers I filed the other day go through.

But what if the operations don’t work? What if I go through all that for nothing, and she still hates me? And what if this sleazy doctor with a clinic in his basement fucks something up? What in God’s name is he going to do to me?

Fuck a duck. tomorrow’s really going to suck. I’m not exactly looking forward to today, either. I have to meet Darla at the clubhouse at seven sharp for “orientation,” whatever the hell that is. Luckily, he told me none of the club members will be there, since they’re on a road trip—and I don’t imagine they wake up that early, anyway.

I want to lie here for another two hours, but I need to get my ass in gear if I’m going to make it to Clarkstown by seven.

Dawn doesn’t want me in the house unless it’s to cook and clean, so I have to use the garden hose to wash up and brush my teeth, doing my best to fumble in the pre-dawn darkness. The neighbors can’t see me when I stand behind the shed, so I piss back there. I haven’t yet had to drop a deuce since my banishment, but I guess I’ll just squat behind the shed and throw the poop in the trash can, or bury it somewhere.

I’ll have to find a rag to use if I don’t want shit on my hands, since I don’t have access to paper towels out here—and, fuck, I’ll need to find something to use for toilet paper, too. I’ll stop off at the gas station on the way to Clarkstown and grab a bunch from the bathroom.

I shake my head, still stunned by my new reality. And I know it’s about to get a hell of a lot worse.

With a sigh, I trudge back into the shed, don my maid’s outfit and wig, and head to the minivan. I can do my makeup in the rearview mirror.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^​

My knock is answered by a spiked-haired waif in a yellow maid’s dress who’s even shorter than me.

“Louise?” The effeminate creature steps aside. “I’m Tiny. Come on in. You’re early.”

I step into the dark, familiar clubhouse, which seems larger now that it’s empty, other than the group of maids congregating at the other end of the room. I recognize Darla, and I figure the sissy with the huge breasts must be Boom-Boom.

I also notice that the place is absolutely trashed. Clearly, a raucous party was held here recently.

As Tiny and I approach the group, Darla looks at the wall clock and frowns. “You’re early, Louise.”

“Um, yeah, I always try to get to appointments a few minutes early.”

“Well, the Bandits don’t like it when we don’t follow instructions to the letter. I told you: Protocol is everything to them. Show up early in the wrong situation, and you’re liable to get the shit kicked out of you.”

I’m having a hard time processing all this. Darla seems sympathetic, reaching over and tapping my shoulder.

“Poor, Louise. We’ve all been there, haven’t we?”

The other sissies in the room nod.

“That’s what this orientation is about,” Darla explains. “We’re gonna get this place cleaned up, and answer any questions you might have; get you ready for your new life as a Bandit Bitch.”

I want to get on board with this fucked-up program, but I can’t stop trembling.

“Aw, poor thing, this is the hardest part,” a chubby pansy says. “Once you get your operations, it’ll get easier.”

“No, it won’t!” Boom-Boom snaps. “Don’t be getting this sissy’s hopes up, Fifi. I hate the way you guys do these orientations!” The well-endowed Bandit Bitch turns to me. “It won’t get easier after your operations, honey. Nothing’s ever easy for us—I haven’t had an easy day in years. They work us to death; I turn twenty, thirty tricks some days. You’ll be sucking so many cocks, you’ll wish you’d never seen one. We get pissed on; shit on. They make us drive in from Mexico with balloons of fentanyl up our asses. We’ve had two Bandit Bitches die when the balloons broke.”

Fifi’s eyes flash. “Come on, Boom-Boom, why the hell are you scaring him like that?”

“I’m not scaring him—I’m telling him how it’s gonna be. He’s got his first party next week, and he needs to be ready.”

Darla holds up his hand. “Look, I get it, that’s what this orientation is about—making sure he’s ready for what he’s getting into. But, Boom-Boom, you know we try to be gentler about it; break them in slow.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve been through these goddamn orientations before, and I’m well aware of how you do things—but your way never works, man.” Boom-Boom turns to a thin sissy in the rear. “Wilma, at your first party, when we had to scrape you off the clubhouse floor after your master ***** you with a baseball bat, do you think it helped that nobody told you the truth during your orientation?”

“I don’t know, man, don’t drag me into this,” Wilma says, casting a glance my way.

Darla again puts his hand on my shoulder “Listen, I’m not gonna lie to you, honey—being a Bandit Bitch is no picnic. But you’ll live. You learn how to survive, you know?”

I nod, completely dumbfounded.

“Now, come on—let’s get this place cleaned up, and we’ll answer any questions you have,” Darla says, putting on a smile. He’s clearly the leader of the Bandit Bitches—and apparently the most brainwashed member, as well, although they all have that same glazed look in their eyes. This “orientation” seems to be some sort of team-building exercise. Just like a cult.

As I pick up an empty beer bottle from the floor, I ask the question that’s been bothering me: “Um, so, I have to go to the party next week … even though my operations are tomorrow?”

“Shit, are you kidding me?” Boom-Boom scoffs as he wipes a puddle of beer from the floor. “The Bandits love having new meat that’s freshly operated on.” He looks down at his huge boobs. “Just two days after I got these, they had ‘em pierced, and they hung full milk bottles from them, just a few minutes after I got the piercings done. They broke a few of my stitches—but they thought that was hilarious. The Bandits are evil, man. I’m just letting you know what you’re in for.”

I drop the bottle and it crashes on the tile. Tears stream down my face.

“Damn it, Boom-Boom, now look at him!” Fifi screams. “What good does it do to tell him all this shit?”

“Because this is supposed to be orientation, not a goddamn tea party!” Boom-Boom snaps. “We’ve had four of these damn things now, and they never work. Every time, the poor sissies are a wreck after their first party. We need to try something different.”

“Well, Hawkman put me in charge, so maybe we should do things my way,” Darla fires back. “Or, maybe you want to take it up with him.”

That shuts Boom-Boom up, and all is silent as we sissies continue cleaning the clubhouse.

I venture another question: “Um, who’s your master, Boom-Boom?”

“Big Ronnie,” he says as he wipes mustard off the wall.

“Did you meet him … um, in prison?”

“Yeah. I got sent up after my third ***** driving. Your master actually had me first; he sold me to my master after losing in a poker game; it was either me or five cartons of cigarettes, and your master didn’t want to go without smokes.”

“So, Je—um, my master actually is the one who—”

“Turned me out?” Boom-Boom smiles. “Yes, he did. Your master is very persuasive.”

I nod at his breasts. “Those came after you got out of prison, I suppose.”

“Yeah, these were my master’s idea.” Boom-Boom seems a bit sad. “He told Dr. Ott he wanted the biggest ones possible. They make my master a lot of money, that’s for sure. Which is the idea, I suppose.”

“Um, how hard is it to get around with those things? Don’t they make your back hurt?”

Boom-Boom chuckles. “OMG, my back never stops hurting, honey. From these, and from sleeping on the floor every night.”

“Hey, I have to sleep on the floor, too!” I say, feeling like part of the gang.

“Most of us do,” Darla says, grinning. “Except, Tiny, the uppity little snit—he gets to sleep on a dog bed in the same room as his master and mistress. Can you imagine?”

“Some guys have all the luck.” Boom-Boom sighs as he lifts an empty beer bottle from a spot near the pool table.

Chapter 12: A New Lou​

Everything’s black. A faint hum.

A machine?

It’s cold. Freezing cold. There’s bluish light beyond my eyelids. I’m afraid to pry them open.

“Wha?”

The squeak alarms me. I don’t recognize it.

“Hello?”

No answer. I don’t need one. I know what happened—I can hear it in my new voice.

I have to strain to open my eyes. Blurry shapes float into focus. An IV in my arm. A contraption with a screen showing a steady blip. My heartbeat.

OMG. Tits!

I reach between my legs.

Whew.

My genitals are intact, although the rest of me feels different. My eyes won’t stop watering, which isn’t unusual for me—shit, I’ve done nothing but cry since Jeff entered my life—but it’s not the same. It’s hormones. They’ve pumped me full of estrogen, I’m sure of it.

I lick my lips. They’re puffy.

My hair comes to my shoulders. I can see the edges. It’s.shocking.pink.

Hello, new me.

Fuck.

There’s nothing I can do about it. I’m the dumbass who signed the consent forms, allowing the sleazy, old doctor to do his dirty work in this dingy basement clinic. At least I’ve got something soft to lie on for a change. And the room is thankfully clean; I imagine Bandit Bitches take care of that chore. Maybe it’ll be part of my Service Days once I start my new duties.

I keep hearing Darla’s mantra in my head:

You’re a Bandit Bitch now. You’re a Bandit Bitch now. You’re a Bandit Bitch now …

I honestly don’t know how in the world this all happened. It’s crazy how quickly my life came tumbling down, and how I managed to fall victim to a cult that preys on weak-willed simps like me. When Jeff retired from being an active member of the club, I don’t know if he planned to continue exploiting Bandit Bitches—but when he met me, there’s no question I brought out his instinct to dominate, and he jumped right back into the Bandit Bitch game with both feet.

Had I been a normal man—had I sacked-up and left after my wife professed her love for her ex—perhaps Jeff would’ve settled into a quiet life as a respected emeritus member of the Bandits, without bringing a sissified weakling into the equation. He could’ve quelled his sadistic appetites at what I’m told are unbelievably raunchy Bandit Parties without having a bitch of his own like he did in prison.

It doesn’t matter now. My new body is proof of that.

You’re a Bandit Bitch now.

What did they do to my face? There’s a metal towel holder across the room that would probably show my reflection, but I don’t know if I can even move. And I’m too scared to find out.

I just …

I don’t …

I can’t …

Ngg …

Lights out.

^^^^^^^^^^^^​

There’s something. Shapes. Colors. A noise.

Then … it’s them. Hazy, blurry at first … but it’s them. Familiar warmth washes over me, followed by a jolt of cold fear that snaps me into full consciousness.

“Hey, there, Princess.” Jeff leers. “You look real pretty, you know that, sweetheart? Dr. Ott did a great job.”

Dawn stares at me with her lips curled in an amused smirk—the first time in ages she’s done anything other than snarl in my direction.

“I can’t believe it, but Jeff was right—I can’t tell it’s you,” she says.

Jeff chuckles. “You are a genius, Doc.”

“Thanks, Jeff,” an old man in blue scrubs answers, which causes me to flinch, since his voice makes me aware for the first time that he’s in the room with us. “I can’t wait to see this one get broke in at the party next week. Their first parties are always the best!”

I recoil in terror at the mention of the party, causing Jeff to chuckle.

“You’ll be alright, Louise,” he says. “The Bandits can be a little rough on first-timers, but this is your chance to prove your loyalty. Right?”

“Um … yeah.”

“When we’re not around the kids, you say, ‘Yes, Master,’ you hear me, bitch?”

“Um, y-yes, Master.”

“At home, it’s ‘Sir’ for me, ‘Ma’am’ for her, and ‘Miss’ for the kids. Understand?”

“Yes, Master.”

“I’ll let it slide just this once because I’m in a good mood,” he says. He grabs Dawn’s hand and shows me the ring on her finger. “I asked ol’ girl if she’d marry me. I mean, once your divorce is final. And guess what, Louise? She said yes! Ain’t you happy for us?”

I close my eyes. “Y-yes, Master,” I whisper.

My masters and the doctor chat for a few minutes about Bandit business, before I’m able to muster the courage to utter the question I’ve been dying to ask:

“Um, if it’s okay … um, is there a mirror, so I can see what I look like? Please?”

With a triumphant smirk, Dawn reaches into her purse and hands me her compact.

I’m shocked at my reflection.

Dawn’s eyes flash pure evil. “Look at yourself, faggot. Look at what you’ve allowed yourself to become. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Um, I … I don’t know, Ma’am,” I croak.

In a blur, I see Jeff’s hand slash forward a nanosecond before it strikes my face.

WHHHAAPPP!!!

“It’s ‘Mistress’ when we ain’t with the kids, bitch,” he snaps.

“I … I’m sorry, Master.”

Dawn chuckles. “Even though he looks different, he’s still a little fag.”

Jeff nods. “You got that right.” He checks his watch. “Shit, baby, we got to run.”

My master smiles at Dr. Ott. “Hey, Doc, you did a great job, man,” he says. “It’s not too soon after the operation for our little sissy to put them lips of his to work to give you a nice tip, is it?”

The doctor leers. “Oh, hell no. It’s never too early for THAT.”

Jeff snarls at me, “Say thank you to the good doctor.”

I lower my eyes. “T-thank you.”

“Well, sissy, we gotta run,” Jeff says, taking Dawn by the hand and leading her to the exit. “Be nice to the doc.”

They walk away. My beloved angel doesn’t look back.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^​

My entire body hurts, but even though it’s only been three days since my operations, my masters haven’t let up on my workload. The dishes need doing, and then Jeff told me he left some of the Bandits’ boots out in the garage that need polishing. Luckily, the family is all gone out for a Saturday picnic, which hopefully will leave enough time to get everything done.

I’m trying to erase from my memory what happened at the clinic the other day after Dawn and Jeff left. I gave Dr. Ott his “tip,” and he seemed to enjoy it, since he availed himself of my services three more times before I came home, pulling me out of bed and onto my knees, despite my weakness at having just been operated on.

My first day back from the clinic also was embarrassing, with Peyton and Eva making a huge fuss over me, and snapping picture after picture to post on social media. I have to admit, the doctor did a great job, even if I’m not feeling so great about it.

Ugh. So, here I am. This is my life. The chores seem to never end. Once I get these boots done, the lawn needs mowing. I hate doing outside chores now; Mrs. Traynor keeps peeking through her curtains. She hasn’t talked to me since Jeff started showing up. It has to be fairly obvious to her what’s going on, with the Harley permanently parked in the driveway, and me flouncing around dressed like a maid. It’s too bad, because she was always a bright spot; one of the few people outside work who treated me decently.

There’s a knock at the garage door, and when I answer it, I’m shocked to see Darla standing there, looking like he’d just been beat up by the Dallas Cowboys.

“OMG, what the hell happened?” I shriek.

“Don’t worry about it; my master and his friends got a little carried away,” he says, trying to look brave but failing.

“Carried away? Jeez, Darla, you look terrible!”

“I know; it’s fine. I’ll be fine. I came by to make sure you’re okay.”

“You’re in that kind of shape and you came by to see if I’m okay? That’s awfully nice of you.”

“I do it with all the Bandit Bitches after their operations,” he explains. “After …” His voice trails off.

“After what?” I demand.

“Well, okay, Louise, you need to know what you’re getting into. Hawkman made me start doing post-op wellness checks after Chi-Chi slit his wrists. Killed himself.”

Blood drains from my face, but I play it cool. “I’m fine, Darla. I’m just worried about you.”

He smiles weakly.

“Don’t worry about me, honey. It’s not like this is the first time this has happened. I’ll be fine. You just need to get yourself ready for the party; it’s only in three days. Are you gonna be ready?”

“Yeah,” I lie. “Like my master told me, it’ll be a chance to prove my loyalty.”

“That’s the spirit.” Darla pats me on the shoulder. “Gotta run; I’ve got a client to meet in about an hour.”

“With your face like that?”

The sissy chuckles. “You’ll learn, honey. Those freaks our masters do business with love this kind of shit.”

^^^^^^^^^^^^^​

The sun is starting to rise, but I haven’t slept a wink.

This is it. I’m finally doing it. I can’t take this anymore. I won’t take it. Fuck that—I’m not gonna end up like Darla.

I’ve planned ahead. Last night before heading out to the shed, I emptied out Jeff’s wallet—fifteen hundred dollars in cash. I gathered some old clothes and a ballcap. Then, I spent the evening pacing in the shed, wondering whether to go through with my scheme, or if I should put the cash back, submit to the future my master wants for me, and continue along on a sure path of debasement, pain, and, ultimately, destruction.

Fuck that.

Darla said nobody runs from the Bandits. Well, damn it, I’m going to try. If they catch me and kill me, it’ll be better than what they’ve got planned for me anyway.

And if they don’t kill me …

… well, shit, I don’t even want to think about that.

TO BE CONTINUED??