Conjuror's Coven - Chapter One

“Please don’t freak out,” my girlfriend said, playing with the fraying fabric at the waist of her pajama bottoms.

She turned her big, brown eyes down, looking at the hotel bed comforter, voice going quiet.

“I have to tell you something,” she went on. “It’s gonna be weird. But you can ask me anything.”

She was so damn cute it sometimes distracted you from how sexy she was.

I couldn’t tell if I wanted to squeeze her cheeks or clap them. Preferably both. And despite the fact that we were ‘officially dating’, and we were coming to Virginia so I could meet her family, we hadn’t got to the ‘clapping’ point yet.

Other things? Yes. Were they as depraved, porn-like, and as intimate as I wanted? No. But still, other things. 

Catie hadn’t even touched a man until we met. And not for a quite awhile after. She told me quick how she felt about getting physical, so it wasn’t like I didn’t know the score. But I’d had to wait until things were ‘official’ before she did more than hold hands or kiss, and my brother in Christ, it was hard.

After that though, she ‘took care of me’ once a week like clockwork. For that blissful evening I could touch her (a bit). But it was sort of like expensive stripper rules, if your lapdance ended in a handjob. OK there was a little lips and tongue—but this was careful, too. She considered going further something sacred, something neither of us had earned.

Such things were reserved for her husband, she told me, with the kind of ‘and I’m hoping that’s you’ eyes that once would have terrified me, but with her sent a thrill up my spine.

Catie had a kind of ‘girlfriend responsibility’ mindset I loved. She’d been taught men were men and women were women, and both parties ought to do their jobs. But she was old school: ‘Put a ring on it, or shut up about it.’

Annoying? Yes. Extremely attractive in a potential wife? Also yes.

She’d been raised Mormon, which I knew very little about. Some weird denomination out east where the settlers stayed damn near where they landed. She’d told me it wasn’t quite like those folks in Utah. That it was weird and specific. I didn’t mind.

Truth is, I’d have proposed the day I met her.

But I knew I had to be patient. Frustratingly patient. Bringing in a girl worth a damn takes some time and effort. Being Catie’s boyfriend left me frequently blue-balled and in agony.

This wasn’t her fault, really–she was just so sexy no matter what she did. Every time I saw her I wanted to strip off her clothes and bury at least some part of myself between her legs.

Somehow this made it even hotter when our weekly ‘relief’ arrived. She was the only woman who could stick bra-covered tits in my face and give me a hand job and make it sexier than a drunken bar slut who’d do anything.

A few years earlier? I would have rolled my eyes and moved on, just dating to get some action, no thought about the future. 

But I was getting older and I wasn’t that guy anymore. I was thirty-one when I met Catie, starting to make real money as a lawyer working for my own list of clients poached from some lawfirms.

I’d worked hard on myself for a decade, finishing law school, passing the bar in California, keeping fit and getting a career. I was ready for long-term commitment, responsibility, a family.

So for the first time in my life I’d wanted a good, sweet, family-oriented, non-whore kind of girl. Someone I could, you know, trust. Who’d be a good wife and mother and happy for everything I could provide.

Catie fit the bill and then some.

I’d told myself that looks weren’t so important–that I’d be happy with any average looking virgin-ish girl who wanted a family and treated me well. But not only was Catie sweet and smart. She was responsible. Wise beyond her years. And she was attractive.

Really attractive. Like pretending to be that ugly duckling in one of those shitty teen movies, but failing so bad it made you roll your eyes attractive. She was the filled out girl next door. If your neighbors were hot as hell. 

She had these curved, pretty, Bambi eyes, a genuine smile with perfect teeth. And if you managed to stop looking at her face you soon found tits she couldn’t hide no matter what she did. Her hips and ass had the same problem. It resulted in an hourglass figure that she covered like it was a doomsday clock.

Sorry. Got distracted there. 

Anyway, we met at the University of California in San Diego—a five hour flight and about as far from Catie’s home as you could get in the US. It was some mandatory English lit class she was taking for her degree, and I was taking for…other reasons.

‘But Jack’, I hear you saying. ‘I thought you were like 30 years old. Why the fuck were you in a first year English class?’

Listen, buddy. When you’re my age, it’s hard to meet young women who aren’t bar whores or on OnlyFans, OK? What was I gonna do, troll different churches every Sunday like a schoolyard predator?

I wanted a girl who was young enough I wasn’t the tenth guy she’d slept with. A girl who didn’t think the Kardashians were cool. Or whatever whores the kids are into now.

I wanted to be…it. To be him. To be special and a girl’s everything like my piece of shit father once was to my mom. The guy she waited for. I wanted to be the guy.

But I wasn’t just some asshole. I intended to give her everything–every cent I made, all my affection and attention, for the rest of our lives. No more screwing around. No more dating apps or side chicks or situationships. Loyalty for life. Old school, all in, commitment. Was that so much to fucking ask?

So yeah, I signed up for a few first year university classes hoping to meet girls, OK? Sue me.

I tried not to stink of desperation, or to stare at prospects like I was searching their souls. I probably failed on both counts. I did this for two semesters without much luck, dropping classes and signing up for new ones like a schizophrenic billionaire.

Results were…mixed. But by the end of almost a full calendar school year, it was fair to say ‘Operation Find an Eighteen Year Old Virgin Bride’ wasn’t going so well.

I’m a decent looking guy, don’t get me wrong, and I look a little younger than my age. I keep fit and dress well. I have money and drive a nice car.

Like I said, my dad left when I was young, so I’ve been the man of the house for twenty-five years. I can do the things women expect men to do. I’ve seen a lot and been around, so there’s always things to talk about. It wasn’t hard to get dates, and as much action after said dates as I wanted. Some were students, some were teachers…

But it was just more of the same.

Turns out your average late teen girl in California has more notches on her bed-post than a guy ten years older. These college girls were the bar whores I was tryin to avoid. I was in the same scene, just with a few extra letters behind your one-night stand’s name, and a bit more family money.

This was not the goal.

In fact, I was about ready to give up. I ran the risk of getting addicted to college girls. They were young, hot, just partying and willing to screw you with no commitment whatsoever. The little devil on my shoulder kept whispering ‘yes!’ But this fucker never learned.

I didn’t care about the money I was wasting, but I consider my time valuable (fortunately, so do my clients!). A year of this crap and I was ready to fly to some South Asian country or get a Russian mail order bride. Or do they come from Ukraine now? Is there some kind of app?

Then I met Catie.

Beautiful, wonderful, impossible little Catie. She sat down at the edge of this first year course like a professional student, more backpack than girl. It was clear right away she wasn’t like the others.

Everyone else slumped in their seats like usual, bored before the first word of their sparkly education, hung over from freshmen parties. Catie was bright eyed and bushy tailed. She looked around and fought a smile like she knew she was too excited and was trying to keep it hidden.

The others wore wrinkled t-shirts and sweat pants. Catie wore what some country kid must have thought college kids wore–like she’d picked up a university sweater from the gift shop and ironed it the night before.

Her messy bangs bounced as she turned to people-watch, then as she spun back and tapped her pen. Her ponytail looked rushed, like she’d forgotten she had to worry about her hair. The way she pushed back some loose strands behind an ear had me mesmerized.

Yeah. Different, right from the start.

I couldn’t stop looking at her. The arch of her neck. The curve of her back. The subtle swell of that baggy sweater whenever she turned…

But it was her…energy, really. I can’t explain it. Somehow she was just alive in a way no-one else was. The opposite of that awful cool girl attitude, of looking out at this amazing world and just seeming bored.. She was a kid in her favorite place. Looking out with fresh eyes and excitement that just sucked me in and made it all new and better.

I knew right then, this was my wife. I know that sounds crazy. But for as long as I can remember I’ve had this kind of…warmth in my gut, just intuition I guess but a more physical thing. When it started glowing, I always trusted it. And brother, it was boiling.

I followed her after class, hoping to figure out what to say. I had this impatient terror, like at any moment some other guy would see how amazing she was and scoop her up before I had the chance. A girl like this couldn’t be single, right? There was no fucking way.

I went through the self-doubt. The internal monologue telling me she’d have a boyfriend, probably five of them. That her father would be a billionaire and she’d be betrothed to some prince somewhere. Or that she’d just take one look at me and say ‘fuck off, old man’.

Then she’d suddenly stopped in the middle of the hall and grunted like Tinkerbell doing manual labour. I’d been so shocked I just stood there until I realized she was twisting at the cap of a Dr. Pepper, not strong enough to get it open. It didn’t take a genius to see the universe was throwing me a bone.

I launched myself. I was the white knight of cola. ‘At your service, ma’am. Man-strength grip ready to serve. Will you marry me?’

I swear to Christ, at the exact right moment, her pitiful efforts had pulled off that giant backpack hanging by one strap. It was like watching a boulder tip.

She was so adorably uncoordinated she was suddenly dropping her drink, her bag, maybe even toppling over as she tried to save both. And there I was, just in time, her personal bodyguard. I was fucking Spiderman.

In one second, I was a random guy in the hall who maybe sat near her in English class. In the next, I’d saved her from falling, saved her drink, and scooped her into my arms. I’m not even sure how it happened.

She looked up at me with this unstoppably cute little, open mouthed surprise. I still didn’t know what to say. ‘Hey, I’ve been watching you’.

So I just reached down without a word, took her drink and twisted it open. It was the closest I’d ever felt to being like James Bond.

“There you go,” I said when she stared, smiling like my heart wasn’t racing.

“Um, wow, thanks.” She looked flustered in the best possible way. “I’m such a klutz.” 

She blushed as she took it back. I did everything I could not to tell her I loved her and would she like to have my babies? Again I went with ‘cool, polite silence’, and just smiled like I wasn’t an idiot.

“You’re in my English class, right?”

I was surprised she’d recognized me. And also thrilled.

“I sure am. You OK now?”

“Yeah.” Letting go of her was physically painful. She struggled with the straps of the backpack, and blushed again when I helped her put them on. “Shit.” She covered her mouth, like swearing was some kind of sin. “I must seem like an idiot. I swear I’m not.”

I couldn’t help but beam like a moron, which was still a lot better than dropping down to a knee and professing my undying love.

“I got a break now,” I said, like I had more than two fake classes a week. “You want to grab some fries in the cafeteria, or something?”

And that was it. That’s how it started. Two point one semesters, a little over a year, and I’d found the future Mrs. Falaguerra. I bought her some fries. We talked for two hours and made a date for that night. 

She didn’t have five boyfriends. She didn’t have any boyfriends. She said she’d been homeschooled in Virginia. Her Dad had been a soldier who died in Afghanistan. She was here on a full ride scholarship, which she’d had to get because her mom and two sisters were back home and they couldn’t help her with college.

She was even more beautiful when she was talking, which wasn’t my experience of all women. She was honest and authentic and tough, without being coarse or jaded. I stared like a creep.

But she was perfect. I asked her out every night until she had to make me a schedule so I’d stop asking. She explained her ‘rules’ until marriage. I said no problem. I did my work, saw my clients, and thought of nothing but the next time I’d see her.

We became ‘official’ after a month, and did more than kiss for the first time. I went so hard I was literally worried about my health. It was so strange, like I was a virgin again, like she’d put some kind of spell on me. That was Catie’s magic. She saw the world as if for the first time, her happiness so infectious it brought you along.

She literally bounced with joy the first time she got me off. I was sitting there trying not to pass out, leaking all over her hands, and she was doing a little dance like she’d won first place in some contest.

“Oh my God!” She beamed and had me twitching as she kept playing with her new toy. “I can’t believe I did it! My arm is tired.”

“OK,” I’d said, eyes fluttering. “Just gimme a sec. Then it’s your turn.”

But she didn’t let me reciprocate. Ever. Said ‘women had more sexual discipline than men.’ That only her husband would do that, too. I was disappointed, I won’t lie. But it only made me want her more. To give her what she deserved, to give her everything.

I’ll say it again: she was perfect. I guess that should have tipped me off that something would come along. That life would laugh and hit me in the face.

We were coming up on Christmas break, and I offered to pay for everything if she wanted to go home and see her family. I didn’t even suggest she take me. I just wanted that for her. I knew how much she loved them and how home-sick she was sometimes. 

There was a deep well there she didn’t talk about much. Maybe because of her Dad, maybe because she’d left them behind. I wasn’t sure, but I knew there was unfinished business. And literally all I wanted was to see her happy.

She’d cried a little, hugging me and telling me how wonderful I was. That had been reward enough. But then she’d looked up at me with those big, brown eyes and asked if I wanted to come. To meet the family I could maybe be a part of.

“I’d like that,” I said, melting like a candle. “If that’s what you want.”

She nodded, and I could see it in her eyes–the same thing I’d felt when I first saw her, growing stronger every day. The realization that this could be her future. That I was serious and in it for the long haul. That soon her rules wouldn’t matter, and that she’d get the man and commitment she deserved. 

But her jaw clenched, and she’d gotten a look I’d never seen on that pretty face before. It wasn’t anxiety or simple concern. It was fear. Like real fear.

Was she that scared they wouldn’t like me? That I wouldn’t like them?

“It’s just…” 

I could tell she wanted to say it, whatever it was, but she didn’t quite manage then. I knew there was something important she wanted to get out but couldn’t. That I’d have to deal with something awful from her past, or about her family. Something that would maybe pop that perfect little bubble I’d been living in.

Had she been abused? The thought made me want to kill someone. Was there some tragic accident? A black sheep in the family? Was she lying about being a virgin and had some awful past?

I didn’t push it. Maybe I was afraid. She tried and failed to talk to me a few times the days before the flight. It wasn’t until later she managed it. After a delayed and then missed plane, and an extra night put up in a hotel in Denver, one day before we were supposed to see her family. 

And even then, she didn’t try until after we’d gotten ready for bed. After she’d had a couple drinks from the hotel fridge. This from a girl I hadn’t seen take more than a few sips of wine since we’d met.

She was finally ready. I was eager to find out, but also terrified.

“Don’t freak out,” she said. “I have to tell you something. It’s gonna be weird.”

I had no idea.