Chapter 1: Jump into It
The air in the Sunset Pines communal lounge was thick with the scent of lavender polish and fading perfume. Sunlight, harsh and revealing, cut through the bay windows, illuminating dust motes dancing above a forest of walkers. Marcus Webb shifted in the chair behind the reception desk, his long legs folding awkwardly beneath it. A week in, and the place still didn’t feel real.Gertie, his boss, slapped a clipboard down in front of him. Her fingers were stubby, capable.
“Medication logs for Wing B,” she said, her voice a dry rasp.“Doctor Philips is doing rounds Thursday, not Wednesday. Make sure the charts reflect that.”
“Right.Thursday.Got it,” Marcus said, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat.Beneath the desk, hidden by the modesty panel, a world existed. A world of gnarled fingers and insistent mouths. Ethel’s hand was on his inner thigh, her grip surprisingly strong. Agnes was tracing the seam of his chinos with a knobby knuckle. And Mabel… Mabel was already working at his belt buckle with a frantic, practiced efficiency he found profoundly confusing.
He tried to focus on Gertie’s eyebrows, which were drawn on in a sharp, skeptical brown.
“You settling in alright, Marcus?” Gertie asked, her eyes narrowing.“You look a little flushed.”
Under the desk, his zipper descended. The sound was deafening.“Fine.Just warm. The sun,” he managed, gesturing vaguely toward the windows.A cool, dry palm slid into his open fly.He inhaled sharply through his nose.
“Hmm.” Gertie didn’t seem convinced, but she tapped the clipboard once more. “Just see it’s done. I’ve got a vendor meeting.”
The moment her sensible shoes clicked away on the linoleum, the effort under the desk intensified. He let his head fall back against the chair, staring at the acoustic tiles. A water stain blossomed above him like a phantom continent.He was already hard. That was the part that haunted him—the sheer, mechanical predictability of his own body against the backdrop of his screaming mind.
They’d claimed him on his third day.A confluence of wandering hands during bingo, a whispered conspiracy in the hallway. They called him a “good boy,” their voices like crumpling parchment. Their need was a palpable force, a hungry vacuum in the sun-drenched room.It wasn’t about him, not really. He was just a warm vessel.A functioning part. Their eyes, sharp and restless, tracked him with a desperation that had nothing to do with infirmity.
Now, Ethel guided him out, into the open air of the cramped knee-hole. Agnes cooed something unintelligible, her breath smelling of mint and something metabolic.Then Mabel, efficient and voracious, took him into her mouth.
His hips jolted. He slammed a hand down on the desk to steady himself, sending a pen rolling. It was all wet heat and wrongness, a grotesque parody of every furtive fantasy he’d ever had.Her technique was wildly aggressive, all teeth and suction. It was sloppy.It was relentless. He watched the photos on the walls—black-and-white images of these same women, smiling beside handsome soldiers, holding babies, their faces soft and unlined. The disconnect was absolute.A low groan escaped him.He was close, embarrassingly fast. It was a biological surrender. Agnes and Ethel rubbed his thighs, their papery skin whispering against the denim.Their whispered encouragements were a bizarre liturgy. “That’s it, dear.” “Let it go for us.”
His back arched. A strangled sound caught in his throat as it hit him, a wave of pure physical release that left him feeling hollowed out and ashamed. Mabel took it all, swallowing with a satisfied hum that vibrated through him. She pulled back with an obscene pop.The three of them emerged from under the desk like subterranean creatures into the light. They smoothed their polyester blouses, adjusted their wispy hair. Mabel wiped the corner of her mouth with a handkerchief she produced from her sleeve.
“There now,” Ethel said, patting his knee.“All better.”
Agnes leaned in, her milky eyes glinting. “You’re a sweetheart, Marcus. A real sweetheart.”
Then, in a move that stunned him anew, Agnes turned and kissed Mabel, deeply, on the mouth. It was a possessive, sharing kiss. Mabel giggled, a girlish sound that seemed to tear a hole in time itself. They linked arms, the three of them, and shuffled away toward the puzzle tables, their walkers clicking a steady rhythm on the floor.Marcus sat there, spent and sticky. He zipped himself up with trembling hands. The lounge hummed with the quiet television, the rustle of a newspaper.As if nothing had happened.He stood on legs that felt boneless. Room checks.He had to do room checks.It was procedure after the midday lull. He grabbed the master key on its coiled bracelet and walked, the click of his own shoes echoing the sound of their retreating walkers.The first door on Wing A was slightly ajar.Room 112.Mrs. Davison.Sweet woman, usually.Hard of hearing.He knocked gently.“Mrs. Davison?Just doing a check.”
He pushed the door open.The room was dim, curtains drawn. A shape moved from beside the door, a swift, surprising shadow. A hand, iron-strong, clamped around his wrist and yanked him inside.The door clicked shut behind him.
He was spun and pressed against the cool wood.It wasn’t Mrs.Davison. It was Iris, from Wing C. How did she even get over here? Her frame was slight but powered by a desperate, wiry strength. Her other hand came up to his face, not with a caress, but with a directing grip.Her lips, thin and cool, crushed against his. Her tongue, seeking and urgent, pushed past his teeth.He tasted lipstick and the faint, metallic tang of denture adhesive. He gagged, turning his head to the side, breaking the kiss. “Iris—please—”
“Hush,” she whispered, her voice urgent in the dark room. Her hands were already at his belt again, her fingers scrabbling, frantic.“They got theirs. It’s my turn.My turn, Marcus. You have to be fair.”