out-of-control son just bit me. Take a look.”
He hitched up the leg of his white linen pants. A deep purple bruise was already beginning to form around the livid red teeth marks that Hunter had left on his calf. Sheila Peterson winced. Pete looked at Caroline as though she were some particularly repulsive beetle that he was having difficulty in stamping on.
“You know, Caroline,” he said quite calmly, “if you spent more time giving a shit about your kid, and less time dressing up like some dime-a-dozen hooker”—he ran his eyes insultingly up and down her body, lingering with distaste rather than lust on her barely contained breasts as they struggled for release from her red satin halter top—“then maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t be such a little savage.”
“How dare you speak to me like that!” said Caroline indignantly. It didn’t occur to her to take any offense on Hunter’s behalf. “Duke, did you hear how that bastard just spoke to me?” Everybody looked around for Duke, but he was nowhere to be seen. Hunter started to cry again.
“On the contrary, Caroline,” said Pete, “I think you’ll find it’s
your
child who’s the bastard. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Claire and I would like to get back to the party.”
“You do that,” Caroline snapped, wrenching Hunter’s hand from Claire’s, to the boy’s evident distress. “And perhaps in the future you’ll remember that he
is
my child, not yours.” She looked at Pete evilly. “Poor little Petey, still no luck on the old baby front, eh? What seems to be the problem? Are your swimmers not quite up to it? Or can’t you get it up at all? That’s certainly not your father’s problem, so I don’t think it can be genetic, do you?”
A couple of embarrassed titters rose from the crowd.
“Now, if you’ll excuse
me,
” she addressed herself to Claire, deliberately turning her back on Pete, whose face had turned a livid puce with hatred and was clashing violently with his receding ginger hair, “I think I’ll go and get my son a tetanus shot. God knows what evil disease he may have picked up from your poisonous husband.”
And with that she stalked off in search of Duke, her son jogging along reluctantly beside her.
Pete made an effort to collect himself. If that bitch and her son had blown it for him with Peterson, he wasn’t going to let her forget it.
“Okay, folks, show’s over.” He forced a smile and signaled to the DJ to resume the music. Supertramp came belting out across the lawn as the crowd once again broke off into little groups, all relishing this latest spectacular outburst of the McMahon feud. By Monday the story would be all over the papers. If only old Duke could have been there to witness it.
Standing by his bedroom window, Duke clenched both hands around the model’s enormous breasts as he fucked her from behind, gazing down at the spectacle below. Watching Caroline get the better of Pete had excited him more than all the girl’s frenzied clenching and moaning, and he found himself coming hard as he thought about what he might do to her later, once all these fucking parasites had gone home. Why the hell did she insist on throwing so many parties, filling the house with these goddamn vacuous assholes? Caroline belonged to him—that was their deal—and he was growing increasingly tired of never having her to himself.
Still, he thought complacently as he sent the starlet on her way, he couldn’t really complain. He’d had one hell of an anniversary party.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was a year to the day after Duke and Caroline’s party, and Pete didn’t think he had ever been so happy.
Lying in postcoital bliss with Claire in the honeymoon suite at the Borgo San Felice in Siena, he felt like his life was, at last, starting to come together.
“Mrs. McMahon, when was the last time I told you how beautiful you are?”
Claire sighed happily and rolled over onto her stomach. “Gee, I don’t know, Pete,” she
He hitched up the leg of his white linen pants. A deep purple bruise was already beginning to form around the livid red teeth marks that Hunter had left on his calf. Sheila Peterson winced. Pete looked at Caroline as though she were some particularly repulsive beetle that he was having difficulty in stamping on.
“You know, Caroline,” he said quite calmly, “if you spent more time giving a shit about your kid, and less time dressing up like some dime-a-dozen hooker”—he ran his eyes insultingly up and down her body, lingering with distaste rather than lust on her barely contained breasts as they struggled for release from her red satin halter top—“then maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t be such a little savage.”
“How dare you speak to me like that!” said Caroline indignantly. It didn’t occur to her to take any offense on Hunter’s behalf. “Duke, did you hear how that bastard just spoke to me?” Everybody looked around for Duke, but he was nowhere to be seen. Hunter started to cry again.
“On the contrary, Caroline,” said Pete, “I think you’ll find it’s
your
child who’s the bastard. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Claire and I would like to get back to the party.”
“You do that,” Caroline snapped, wrenching Hunter’s hand from Claire’s, to the boy’s evident distress. “And perhaps in the future you’ll remember that he
is
my child, not yours.” She looked at Pete evilly. “Poor little Petey, still no luck on the old baby front, eh? What seems to be the problem? Are your swimmers not quite up to it? Or can’t you get it up at all? That’s certainly not your father’s problem, so I don’t think it can be genetic, do you?”
A couple of embarrassed titters rose from the crowd.
“Now, if you’ll excuse
me,
” she addressed herself to Claire, deliberately turning her back on Pete, whose face had turned a livid puce with hatred and was clashing violently with his receding ginger hair, “I think I’ll go and get my son a tetanus shot. God knows what evil disease he may have picked up from your poisonous husband.”
And with that she stalked off in search of Duke, her son jogging along reluctantly beside her.
Pete made an effort to collect himself. If that bitch and her son had blown it for him with Peterson, he wasn’t going to let her forget it.
“Okay, folks, show’s over.” He forced a smile and signaled to the DJ to resume the music. Supertramp came belting out across the lawn as the crowd once again broke off into little groups, all relishing this latest spectacular outburst of the McMahon feud. By Monday the story would be all over the papers. If only old Duke could have been there to witness it.
Standing by his bedroom window, Duke clenched both hands around the model’s enormous breasts as he fucked her from behind, gazing down at the spectacle below. Watching Caroline get the better of Pete had excited him more than all the girl’s frenzied clenching and moaning, and he found himself coming hard as he thought about what he might do to her later, once all these fucking parasites had gone home. Why the hell did she insist on throwing so many parties, filling the house with these goddamn vacuous assholes? Caroline belonged to him—that was their deal—and he was growing increasingly tired of never having her to himself.
Still, he thought complacently as he sent the starlet on her way, he couldn’t really complain. He’d had one hell of an anniversary party.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was a year to the day after Duke and Caroline’s party, and Pete didn’t think he had ever been so happy.
Lying in postcoital bliss with Claire in the honeymoon suite at the Borgo San Felice in Siena, he felt like his life was, at last, starting to come together.
“Mrs. McMahon, when was the last time I told you how beautiful you are?”
Claire sighed happily and rolled over onto her stomach. “Gee, I don’t know, Pete,” she
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