Excerpt

Chapter 1:  I’m Going Where?

It was May of 1975. Maybe you remember what it was like. The US was evacuating its embassy in Saigon. Streaking had come and gone. The stock market was just beginning to recover from an extended downturn. Gerald Ford was our president. Most people had yet to hear of Bruce Jenner. Jack Nicholson and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest had just cleaned up at the Oscars. Nixon administration personnel were being sentenced to prison for their roles in Watergate. We were soon to reach two hundred years as a nation. The Cold War was going strong, but the “ping-pong diplomacy” of 1972 in China had initiated a thaw of sorts, even with the Soviet bloc. Eighteen was the legal age for drinking in many states. Simon and Garfunkel, Elton John, and the Eagles were among my personal favorites. The Pittsburgh Steelers had won their first Super Bowl in January. And I was driving a school bus twice a day to pay for tuition expenses at Grand View College before transferring to the University of Northern Iowa.

“You gotta be kidding me,” I said to no one in particular as I pulled the bus on to the shoulder, in response to the flashing red lights that were clearly intended for me. I was usually the first driver to depart every afternoon from the Norwoodville Elementary School parking lot because my route covered the greatest distance. As the rookie driver I didn’t select my route; it was assigned to me. I stood up to tell my kindergarten passengers to remain in their seats while I went back to the car with the flashing lights to talk with “Mr. Policeman.”

Little Rollie Kouski asked, “Are you mad? My daddy always gets mad when he talks to the policeman.”

I had to watch as every other driver slowed his bus to make certain he could believe what he was seeing. That’s right, one of their very own was being cited for speeding – while driving a school bus full of kindergartners – less than three blocks from the school! Between their wild hand gestures and guffaws I was confident they would be waiting en masse at the bus barn once I finished the route. They were.

“Son, I’ve been sitting here in this same spot, every day, for two weeks. I’ve been watching all of you drivers barrel down Broadway. I know it is downhill, and I know the limit changes from twenty-five to forty-five just up the street. But right here it is only twenty-five. Every one of you drivers has been over the limit. I just decided that today I was going to send a message to all of you. You just happened to be the first one out of the chute, so I am citing you for speeding. Sorry, you were the one to be the example. Now maybe all of you will slow down.”

And that is why I married a girl from Bydgoszcz, Poland.

I suppose that segue merits some explanation. My father always liked music. He was not a trained musician but he had a pleasant bass voice. He liked to sing and was in the church choir. But even when the choir wasn’t singing, Dad always sang the hymns with a little more gusto than the rest of the congregation. And he would harmonize. That always fascinated me, too. You know how sometimes people sing really loud – like they are trying to impress you? Well, that wasn’t Dad. If he had been like that I probably wouldn’t have liked music. He just enjoyed singing, and still does. I wasn’t particularly gifted in music, like my little sister was, but I was probably a little better than my older brother.

Dad found an outlet for his singing interests. He joined the Society for the Preservation and Encouragement of Barber Shop Quartet Singing in America Inc., or SPEBSQSA, for short. I was probably seven or eight years old when Mom and Dad took us to our first “Barbershop Show” at KRNT Theatre. I liked it. The music was OK, I guess, but I really liked those funny guys, “The Four Nubbins.” (The featured quartet).

And that is why I married a girl from Bydgoszcz, Poland.

My youth was a pretty typical middle-America, 1960s, blue collar experience. We were probably closer to poor than to rich, but we were far from either one. Dad was a truck driver who had grown up with six siblings. Mom was a nurse and had been raised on a farm along with three sisters and a brother. We weren’t exactly the Cleavers because Dad didn’t wear a suit to work and Mom always worked outside the home to make ends meet. But Mom and Dad did teach some of the same values as Ward and June. My brother took care of me, kind of like Wally took care of The Beav. My father liked to reference my two best friends as Gilbert and Whitey. He even pegged another buddy as Eddie Haskell.

Copyright 2010 Tim Pratt. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

The vampire closed his eyes and bit into the fleshy neck of the waif. He waited for the rush as the red plasma trickled down his throat, engorging him and bringing him to life. He heard the young man moaning in ecstasy, his voice echoing through him, drowning out the loud club music surrounding them both.  Blood flowed through his body like fire as Lucien instinctively wrapped the trembling stray tighter in his strong arms. The boy’s muscles tightened, his heart beating faster. He was afraid. Lucien felt stronger as the urchin’s blood coursed through his veins, inflating him, making him dizzy with power.

Strangely, he felt mortal again; his sight became even clearer and the surrounding sounds intensified, almost to the point of pain. The youth’s heartbeat pounded in his ears like native drums, and between his legs an erection bulged as blood filled every inch of his body. For a moment Lucien thought he might die. Not like his mortal death, but in bliss like a star, blazing so bright he would explode, shattering the dark universe with fragments of energy and light.

The blood gave him incredible sustenance and power. It pulled at his own thoughts seductively and slowly, like a vampire tugging at his victim’s life force. It felt as if the blood had a life of its own, a vampiric power. Lucien concentrated harder as images from the young man’s life ran through his mind. A tiny house, his bedroom, school, friends, putting a needle in his veins. The images moved like a film in fast forward. The face of a dark-haired woman with emerald eyes surfaced. Once a child, now a seductively beautiful woman. Was she a lover? No. A sister, perhaps? She reminded him of someone he knew in Paris, but who? Reluctantly, Lucien released himself from the youthful flesh of his prey, still holding him close. The boy stared up at him with glazed eyes.

So the rumors had been true.

“Why’d you stop?” He rubbed his neck, feeling the two raised bumps.

“Too much of a good thing.” Lucien smiled and licked his pouty lips. He brushed the mortal’s warm cheek. Yes, if he were not careful, he would drain the boy. Instead, he studied him carefully, now that he had satisfied his lust for blood. He brushed a strand of dirty dark hair from the boy’s sunken face. He was beautiful underneath his drug-induced haze.

“I’ll do whatever you want as long as you pay me.”

Lucien reached into the pocket of his leather coat for the wad of cash and felt nothing.

“Later I can get you all the money you could want, young man.”

“It’s Ryan,” he quipped, his eyes glazed over from the blood loss. “I’m always available.”

“Very well, Ryan. Who is the woman with the emerald eyes?”

“My sister Amanda.” He chuckled nervously, knowing a vampire could gather information from a mortal’s blood.

“She’s beautiful.”

“Yeah, and real smart. She got it all, beauty and brains.”

Lucien had seen the facade of a large building with columns and banners waving in the breeze. He had seen a fountain with running water and sunlight cascading through it and trees surrounding the building. It bordered on a great park. He had seen the woman sitting at a desk in a tiny office, surrounded by books and coffee cups, staring at a computer screen.

“She works in a museum?” he asked casually, scanning the crowd for the others.

“Yeah, the Met. She loves antiques and anything French.”

“Good taste.” Lucien smiled as he caught a glimpse of Michel moving through the crowd coming toward them.

“Later, Ryan,” he whispered in a dismissive tone.

Ryan nodded and ducked into the shadows. Lucien guessed this was the usual crowd of mostly young women, overly made up, dressed all in black, pretending to be one of the undead. Only in America, he thought, feeling suddenly homesick for the City of Lights. This was his first weekend in the New World, and already he missed Paris.

He watched Michel move through the crowd. Despite the passing centuries, Lucien had never forgotten Michel’s grace and beauty, now adorned in haute couture such as Armani and Versace. Well over six feet tall, with catlike dark eyes, shoulder-length black hair, and high cheekbones, Michel was still one of the most beautiful men he had ever seen. He had been the talk of Paris centuries ago, and judging by the way women stared at him, Lucien assumed nothing had changed for the ethereal vampire. His beauty was arresting, his attraction to both sexes universal. He moved like a tiger through jungle palms, silent and deadly. Lucien felt his heart racing as Michel approached him.

“I thought it was just talk, but no.” Michel gave Lucien the once-over. He had never trusted the younger vampire.

“What brings you to our little corner of the world?”

“Quelling rumors.” Lucien smiled carefully. There was no use lying.

“And how are our Parisian friends, Lucien?” Michel leaned up against the bar, surveying the crowd for Christian. Lucien’s presence was an omen. “What are their panties in a bunch about now?” He grabbed a plastic drink straw from the bar and began to chew on it.

Lucien shrugged. He had come to New York to gather information. He had not asked for permission, nor would it have been granted to him. He was depending on the reputed good manners of the New York vampires, especially Christian Du Maura, Michel’s best friend. In fact, he was praying for it.

“I mean no harm, Michel.” Lucien put his hands up in a gesture of humbleness. “It has been too long since we have seen each other.” He noticed that the only things that had changed about Michel were his clothing and his accent. He now had only remnants of the French accent that Lucien remembered mixed with what must be a New York twang. He had heard that Christian and Michel had been here since the early 1900s.

“1790 to be exact.” Michel spoke, twirling the straw. “If I remember correctly, you sided with Gatan and Gabrielle against us, but then, that was over two hundred years ago. My memory may be failing.” He watched Lucien carefully, guessing that he wanted no trouble, at least not in public.

“Things change, Michel. That is one of the advantages to being immortal. Your perspective on history alters at some point, don’t you think?”

“Vampires tend to hold a grudge. You should know that, Lucien.”

Lucien shrugged, leaning against the bar.

“Well, my eyes deceive me.” A deep, soothing voice pierced the darkness.

Lucien turned and found himself face-to-face with the flowing blond hair and dark eyes that could only belong to one immortal: Christian Du Maura. Dressed in satin trousers and a lace shirt, he could almost pass for the eighteenth-century dandy Lucien remembered so well. He wore a long black leather overcoat and his once shoulder-length hair now fell down his back.

“Hello, Christian.”

Copyright 2010 Denise Rago. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

I was in a bad mood for the rest of the day. I felt empty and cheated like I missed my chance to say something, but what did I have the right to say? I’m mad as hell that I fucked you, and even madder than hell that I can’t fuck you again? It was all I could do not to cuss somebody out for asking the simplest question or making the most ambiguous comment.

I guess we all go through our days asking each other how we’re doing, and most of us don’t even care about the answer. I’m no different. Depending on the time of day, day of the week or week of the month, I could easily respond with, I’m hungry, my feet hurt, I need a new weave, and I just started my period I’m in dire need of a bikini wax and dire-er need of a man to notice. But I stick with the Just fine, thanks, adding the standard, And you? in passing, like it’s not a question.

All that particular day, saying, Just fine, thanks, when I really would rather have babbled on with, I’m tired, broke, and lonely, I spend way more money than I make, I make way less money than I’m worth, and I want a man of my own, was really a struggle.

When I got home that night, I found Curtis’ business card in my door with a note written on the back. Sorry about today. Call me, please.

I won’t deny that I ran to the phone to call him. I took a couple of breaths and then dialed. When he answered, I told him, “I just wanted to tell you that you shouldn’t be just dropping by over here, leaving notes on my door.”

He cleared his throat before responding. “So what you’re saying is, call first from now on?”

“You know what I’m saying. You shouldn’t be coming over here, or leaving notes on my door. Or anything. From now on.”

“Listen, could I come by in a minute?”

“You already know the answer to that,” I said.

“So, I’ll see you later?”

“You know, I’d rather you wouldn’t. It’s not a good idea.”

“That’s not a no.”

I was tripping at how I was even going through the motions with this conversation. “Curtis, let’s not start this, okay?”

“Start what?”

“Look,” I said. “You know I need a lot of attention, and you-you just ain’t in that kind of position.”

“I just want to talk,” he lied.

“Come on, Curtis. Don’t play me like that. Give me a little bit of credit.”

“Okay, Baby.” I heard the smile in his voice. “What’s up?”

It didn’t help that he was calling me Baby, but I could listen to his voice all night. I dragged on with this bogus exchange, like I wasn’t already considering exactly what I knew he wanted. “You have no idea what it’s been like for me. And to be honest, I’m really just almost at the point of not giving a damn.”

“So, tell me what it’s like,” he said, like that wasn’t enough said.

“You’ve only been married for a couple of months,” I said back. “What do you want with me?” That was a rhetorical question, and he knew it. What did he mean, so? So? “So if I see you again, I know all I’m going to want to do is fuck you.” Okay, that did not come out right.

“Wow,” he breathed a slight chuckle at my lack of subtlety.

“I mean, shit. You know what I mean.”

“I miss you too,” he said. “Really.”

I just held the phone.

Then he said, “See you in a minute, Baby,” as if my silence was the only real answer he needed. Then he hung up.

Awwww-shit! Shit, shit, shee-it! I stood there for a couple of seconds and just cussed myself. No. No. Don’t do this. I cussed all the way to the shower. I had to shave in the shower, because I hadn’t had a recent bikini wax, and I didn’t have any Nair in the house. I cussed while I shaved and bathed myself in smell-good shower gel. I stood and looked at myself in the mirror while I reminded myself how wrong this was.

I went in my bedroom and turned the covers back and lit a couple of candles on the dresser. I sat on the bed in my bathrobe and then just fell back and stared up at the ceiling fan. I thought about what color lingerie I would put on. Or maybe just a bra and panties. Damn! I wish I’d bought those edible pink panties.

Okay. No. No edible panties. “Don’t do this,” I said out loud to myself. I sat up and swung my feet for a few more seconds. Then I went and sat by the front door, for several minutes trying to unmake my made up mind.

When he knocked on the door, I was still sitting there in my bathrobe. I stood up and leaned my back against the door.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he said, his voice muffled through the door. “It’s me.”

“I know.”

“So-what’s up? You opening the door or what?”

My stomach fluttered as I stayed braced against the door. “You know this is a bad idea,” I said.

“Since when is that reason enough not to do something?” His twisted logic made us both laugh. I took a deep breath and turned around and cracked open the door.

I was about to make another reasonable argument when he pushed the door the rest of the way open and kissed me. He came in and pushed his back against the door and held me and kissed me. Kissed me. And kissed me. I managed to get out the words, “I’m just saying I don’t want to get hurt.”

He just said something like “Mmmm,” and kissed me harder and breathed harder and held me tighter.

“I don’t, don’t um…” My mind went blank for a second.

“Don’t what, baby?” he asked. “You don’t want me?”

“Um, don’t want to hurt her,” I think I said, which wasn’t exactly true. I didn’t even know her, or care about her, honestly. But I knew what it was like to be hurt like that. Hell, I knew what it was like to be hurt by him like that. And none of that, at least at that moment, mattered one bit. What mattered is that I was feeling too good to want it to stop. Damn a red light.

He reached his hand inside my robe and whispered, “If you don’t want this, just tell me, and I’ll stop.” And he kept saying, “Tell me you want it, Baby. Tell me you want it,” all the while pushing his hand between my legs.

He picked me up off of my feet and turned me around so that my back was against the door and stayed pressed against me. And I kept saying, “Please,” and breathing like I was running from something but not getting anywhere.

And he kept kissing me all over my face, my neck and shoulders, and pulling his clothes off and saying, “Please what, Baby? Say you want it. Just say it. Say you want this dick.”

Hell yeah, I wanted it. I wanted to ride him raw, so hard that he’d feel like I would break it off. I wanted it doggy style and thrown up against a wall and to feel him sweating all over my back. I wanted to take it in the ass and beg him not to stop because he’d be hitting all the spots that couldn’t be reached any other way. I wanted his tongue shoved so far up my pussy that I could feel it in my throat. I wanted to swallow him whole and hear him scream for me and God at the same time. I wanted all that, and I wanted to not want it, but not as much as I wanted it. “I-oh God,” I heard myself about to pray for forgiveness for what I knew I was about to do. “I-can’t. Mmmm. Please.”

And every time I thought I could catch enough breath to say what I should have said, he’d kiss me in my mouth until I could hardly breathe. God, he was feeling good. He was smelling good. But mostly, he was feeling good. I could feel the ripples in his stomach pressed against me.

“Please, what, baby? Tell me,” he said, like he really thought I could.

I couldn’t tell him anything. I couldn’t even think of anything but hard dick. Hard, magnificent dick, throbbing between my parted thighs, begging to go just a little bit farther, all mine, if I dared to claim it. Mmm. My dick. Long enough. Wide enough. Just the right amount of rough. Too close to pass it up. Again. Who was I kidding?

It was like I was some pothead who was suddenly consumed with a fiend’s case of the munchies for forbidden dick. Or a crackhead who just couldn’t resist one more hit of that sweet, smooth, slick pipe that had my jaws tight and my mouth literally aching to taste it again, calling me. “Tell me you want it, baby.”

“I,” was all I managed to get out. We ended up having sex right there against the front door. He had my head spinning. I could feel my body tightening, and then loosening as he slid so easily inside me, welcoming, begging, needing every thrust and stroke and motion that he put on me. I swear, I felt the walls moving and the floor about to give way.

He was exactly what I needed, exactly what I’d been missing, and I wasn’t ready or willing to give him up again. It was right there against that door that I decided. Now, what we do is her problem, not mine.

He stayed all night, holding me close. I don’t know what he told her, and didn’t care, because it felt good to feel good, and up until now, I’d forgotten how good. That sexy, beautiful kind of good that you only get from being touched by a man you can hardly wait to touch you, and when he does, you don’t want him to ever stop.

A few hours later, I vaguely remember staggering to the door to lock it behind him, and then making my way back to the bed. The smell of him was making me hot all over again, so I pushed myself out of bed and stumbled to the shower. I went into work a few minutes early. Even went to PT. On a cold ass day in January.

Just be clear, doing PT, physical training, means running at least two miles. Not only do I hate running, I hate early mornings, which sometimes makes me wonder how the hell I’m still in the Army. People on three continents know I hate PT, so for me to have my ass up and running, things have to be going way wrong or way right. What is it about good sex that makes you feel like you want to do stuff you know that you wouldn’t ordinarily want to do?

Anyway, New Year, new attitude. I told myself that 2000 is the year to come up, not back up. And there’s no room in my life for this second hand stuff that he was trying to get me caught up in. His clock starts ticking right now.

I trudged along the track for a few more steps and then came to my senses. What the hell was I thinking? That sex the night before would make running less of a pain in the ass the next day?

The scales were definitely tipped. I was feeling way too good for my own good. My shift doesn’t start until eleven, but I got to work and was ready to rock by 10:15 or so. And that includes the time it took for me to press my skirt, using the iron and board in the vault, pin my hair up, put on my uniform and adjust my ribbons on my shirt.

I walked into my shop just like any other day except the thought of recent sex had me smiling. I’d expected that today would be a pretty uneventful day, considering the night I had last night. I was still tingling and my thighs practically burned thinking about it.

I came through the door and heard the Charlie Brown theme song playing. Residual Christmas music, I guess. I sat down to a stack of tests that came in from one of the MET- or mobile something- something-sites waiting to be coded and graded, so I dug in. A MET site is one of our remote testing locations in different parts of the state where the test administrator goes to give a paper version of the test for applicants who for whatever reason choose not to come to the MEPS to take the computerized version.

When I looked up, I saw my grown-ass coworkers dancing around, mimicking the Charlie Brown gang in that scene where they were all on the stage getting down to Schroeder playing the piano. I have the best coworkers. Silly bastards.

Read more about The Other Side of 30 and Regina Swint HERE.

Copyright 2010 Regina Swint. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Prologue

“I am having the most amazing sex…with your husband. Yes, your husband. As a matter of fact, I fuck him every chance I get.” I felt my eyes draw tight as I stood there, pleased with my cool delivery, satisfied at having rendered her completely speechless.

Well, I would have been pleased and satisfied if it weren’t for the truth. And the truth is that I was actually standing in the shower, rinsing the soap and Noxema® from my face, rehearsing a conversation that would probably never happen. I mean, really. Who breaks news like that, anyway?

The more I thought about it, the worse it sounded. I tried again. “I’m sorry to tell you, but he doesn’t love you.” I liked the image of her, hands on hips, with her mouth caved open, making that sound like something had lodged in the back of her throat.

I grabbed the washcloth and drifted back into my fantasy. “There’s nothing you can do about it. Hey, this is just the way it is.” Okay, that’s some bullshit, but it’s my shower and my daydream.

“What can I say? It just happened.”

Okay, that garbage wasn’t going to work. I felt like I was about to break into a rendition of “Woman to Woman” or some other 70’s I-stole-your-man song, and I wasn’t feeling the bitchy soap opera dialogue.

I wanted to convince myself that it would be best just to come right out with it, like it would ever be that simple. But an ongoing thing like this doesn’t just happen. And it doesn’t just stop.

Seven months had come and gone, and in that time, all I’d managed to do was convince myself that I was in love or something like it, with somebody else’s man. Curtis is the kind of man who you’d always have to be strong about when doing the right thing is at stake, and the day I slipped and fell back into bed with him wasn’t my day to be strong.

His look was not just hypnotic, it was downright poetic. I would practically gravitate toward him. And when he smiled, the two tiny dimples just above the corners of his mouth could make you say yes before he even asked the question. He’s always had a gift for making me forget myself.

Just then the bathroom door swung open and there was my partner in crime.

“Sebrina, who are you talking to?”

“Nobody. I was just—singing,” I told him.

He smiled. “Well, come sing for me.”

I smiled back. “In a minute.”

You could hardly call what we do singing. Though something about the way he does what he does makes me want to sing to him. Sing for him. Sing about him. Anita Baker said it best. He brings me joy. And if anybody could ever bring me joy when I’m down, it’s Curtis. Even if he is the reason I lost my way in the first place. But that’s not part of the song. Or is it?

Chapter One – Old Beginnings

I arrived in Atlanta in the fall of 1998. About a year later, Curtis and I ran into each other at my job. I’m in the Army. He’s a Marine recruiter.

Ever since I joined the Army, God has seen fit to give me my share of what we call special assignments. This job is one of those kinds of assignments. I’m the first to admit that this place is not most people’s idea of the “real Army”. I don’t sleep in the field three weeks out of the month. I don’t run five miles a day at four o’clock in the morning. More on that running thing later. I’ve never been deployed. I don’t pull guard duty at the gate and yell, “Hark, who goes there? What’s the password?” or any of that stuff.

I haven’t done “real Army” stuff since forever ago, when I was crazy enough to let one of my basic training buddies talk me into going to Air Assault School with her so that she could follow her boyfriend to Fort Campbell, Kentucky. Air Assault School—that’s rappelling out of helicopters—is when I discovered that I’m afraid of heights, but also found out that I’m a better runner than anyone who hates running ought to be. Then came the Army’s Master Fitness School, just for normal career progression. Of course, that was back when Be All You Can Be was still the Army’s motto, its best motto in my opinion, and I was on the fast track to somewhere. A few years later came MEPS duty.

The MEPS, or Military Entrance Processing Station, is that place that every high school kid contemplates going to when the job offers and college scholarships aren’t flooding the mailbox after graduation. The same place that every college student thinks about going to when they’re stressed out, flunking out, or just running out of money.

It’s where you go to take the test and the physical and would get sworn in if you don’t change your mind first. It’s that place where college grads say they’ll never, never end up because they’re educated and ambitious. They’ve got connections, friends, frat brothers and sorors, internships. And most of all, they’ve got a degree, like it’s a magic wand.

But circumstances have a way of turning situations around. It’s rude when you realize you got few, if any skills, little or no marketable experience, and you’ve also got loans to pay off. And when it comes time to make that first payment, your degree, internships, networking, and ambition all add up to pocket lint. The next thing you know, you’re in Never-Never Land, the MEPS, and that’s where I work. My particular MEPS is on Fort Gillem, just south of metro Atlanta.

Think back about that Army test that those recruiters came to our high schools and gave, that we just took so we could get out of class for three hours. Well, those people aren’t recruiters. They’re Test Administrators, or TA’s, and I’m one of them. The recruiters are just there to help out. We call them proctors. And it’s not the Army test. It’s an aptitude test that tells people how qualified they are for certain jobs. We still give it at high schools, but we also give it here at my job, usually on the computer, but sometimes with paper and pencil. But I digress. Enough of sounding like a pre-test briefing.

Anyway, I usually work at night, which is a true blessing because I hate getting up early. As much as I love this job, ten years ago you couldn’t have told me I’d end up here, in Uncle Sam’s Army. Looking to have my own adventures, get my own stuff, and yes, pay off that mortgage called a student loan. I saw just how small the world is when I ended up stationed right back at home in Georgia.

And who do you guess just happened to be recruiting for a few good men right here in ATL? Gunnery Sergeant Kirkpatrick Mortecai Curtis. Only by then, Curtis was an ex-boyfriend who was about to be married in six weeks. His fiancé, some prude-ass looking, chunky-faced military brat who’d followed him from wherever he’d found her, was having her We-Need-Our-Space- Before-the-Wedding phase. Stupid heifer.

It was the Tuesday after Columbus Day weekend, a few days before the Georgia Student Test Day, the biggest, suckiest MEPS testing day of the year. Teachers and students scurrying around between classrooms, recruiters running amok, too many books to keep up with. Curtis came blowing into the MEPS, huffing and puffing, and just expecting somebody to fall for one of those tired-ass excuses for being late for a test.

I’d gotten up at o’dark-thirty, driven way out to some school out near Athens, gotten lost on the way, finally found it, given a test, arrived back at work just in time to do QRP—that’s Quality Review Process—on records for the next day’s business— and then finished that up just in time to take up my post at the front counter to check in applicants for the night test. By closing time, at six o’clock in the evening, you could say I was a little cranky, but mostly just ready to go home.

Curtis came bolting in just after six, baby-faced applicant in tow, as I was collecting the clipboards from the counter. That’s what recruiters do when they’re late. Bolt through the door for effect. Before he could even begin his excuse, I cut him off. I’d surveyed every inch of his body in the time it took to take one breath, even noticing that he’d fixed that once-chipped tooth, but I started my ass-chewing spiel like I didn’t even know him.

“Listen here, S’arnt. The Marines don’t run nothin’ up in MEPS. Late is late.” Late or not, he was the best looking thing that I’d seen come through that door. Hell, maybe even the best looking thing walking on two legs. I felt like I could pass out, but I hardly even blinked.

He blinked a couple of times, surely caught off guard by the fact that he recognized me. Then he started his excuse. “I know I’m a little late. We had a flat.” He talked and breathed like they’d just changed four flat tires in a hurricane and barely made it there alive.

“Aw, bull—,” I looked over at the kid in mid-sentence, “—loney.” Recruiters and their stories.

He said, “Really,” with a wide-eyed, high pitched, faked sincerity. “It was the damned-est thing.” He paused and then started again in his regular voice, attempting to exert some kind of authority. “I don’t need to explain that to you. I need somebody to take care of my applicant. Is that you?” His mouth was so pretty and he was really working that gum. I glanced over at the applicant again, who as if on cue, started heaving and breathing like he was out of breath, too.

“Maybe it is. What’s that got to do with you being on time?”

No answer.

“What you need,” I said, “is to be here by 1800. Not 1815, or even 1800 and one second. The cut off for check-in is six o’clock.”

“It’s just now six o’clock,” he said. “It’s six o’clock.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said back. “‘Time for Street to rock’, and all that, and time for me to go home. And breathing all heavy like you just sprinted barefoot down 75 to get here don’t change none of that.” His eyes demanded contact, but I blinked down at my computer to reemphasize my point. “And actually, according to my terminal, you are 7 minutes and— 12 seconds late.” I batted my eyes back up at him. “Sorry.”

“I—”

“Must be new,” I said to finish his sentence. He had his jacket on over his shirt, so to add insult to injury, I asked, “What’s your name S’arnt?” I knew that Marines can be really touchy about rank, so I purposely called him S’arnt just to see how anal he would be.

“Gunnery Sergeant,” he corrected me, and he meant it.

I suppressed the smirk I felt coming on and pretended to exercise some military bearing.

“Hmph. Well, S’arnt Gunnery S’arnt, excuses are the tools of the weak and incompetent.” I turned my back on him as I opened door to the files room, just behind the counter. “Or don’t they teach you that in the Marines?”

“You’re still talking to a senior NCO,” he said to the door closing behind me. “Or don’t they teach you that in the Army?”

“Yep,” I said, as I opened the door and returned to the counter. Then I reminded him, “Teach us how to tell time too. And you’re still late.” I was on a roll. “Anyway, out of time, out of luck. It’s all the same.”

“Just who do you think you’re talking to?” The demand kind of turned me on, as if I weren’t already.

I stepped back and batted my eyes again. “Just who do you think I’m talking to, Lateness?”

His left eyebrow jumped up like he was intrigued, or maybe starting to get a little pissed off at knowing a Marine couldn’t take control of the situation from a soldier.

“Tell you what.” I relented. I already knew when they came through the door that I was going to let that kid go back to take the test. I just wanted to make them sweat a little bit, but there was really no need to keep torturing either of them. “I’ll give you a break. But this is the first and last time you get away with this, and only because you’re new. This doesn’t happen again.”

He let out an unimpressed, “Hmph.”

Uncalled as it was, I continued to give him a hard time for the hell of it as I took the Seven-Fourteen, the test request form, from the applicant. “Next time, save all your flat tire, got stuck in traffic, bad weather or whatever other kind of stories for your station commander when I send you up out of here.”

“I am the station commander.” He leaned forward on the counter, and watched me work at filling out the test form. God, I could smell him, and it was the most delicious scent of all day mixed with lingering cologne.

Then I let out an unimpressed, “Hmph.” After a few seconds, I said, “Okay S’arnt, I got it. Back up, now. You’re crowding me.” Distracting me was more like it. I tried not to lick my lips, remembering them pressed against his bare heaving chest. Plus, I needed a manicure. I continued with, “What I need you to do is either get back to the recruiter lounge…”

He just stood there, so I stopped writing.

“Or get out,” I said with a shrug, “In which case, you can take Mr.—,” I looked down at the 714, “—Madison, with you. Your choice.” I glanced at a bewildered Mr. Madison, who just wanted to take the test.

Curtis took a step back, braced with his arms crossed, like he was daring me to try to physically remove him. A chill rushed through me and knocked the pen right out of my hand.

He must have sensed it because he loosened up. “Okay, let’s start over. How are you doing today?” He smiled and put his hands on the counter. Even his hands were still beautiful, with those long, lean fingers. Clean fingernails. Flat tire my ass.

“I’m good,” I lied, tired as hell. “If I was any better I’d be screaming with my legs in the air.” Mr. Madison chuckled. I smirked. Curtis’ eyebrow jumped again, but I pretended not to notice. “And you?” I asked and started to look away before he had time to reply.

“I’m good and getting better,” he said, starting to smile.

“That right?” I pretended to be half-listening, as I picked up the pen and kept writing, but I was absolutely hinging on the sound of his breath and the smell of his cologne. I regrouped. “Stand by Gunny, while I get Mr. Madison checked in.”

“No problem,” he agreed. “How about I wait over here?” He leaned his fine ass against the door.

I smiled down at the counter, fantasizing, telling myself he still has a perfect kiss and how his lips are still so soft and smooth.

All I could think was how much I missed him. Christ help me. I wanted to jump across that counter, wrap my legs around his back, and fuck him through his clothes. Instead, I just finished processing young Mr. Madison, and sent him back to the test room, where I’m sure my fellow TA was going to be pissed at me for checking in someone fifteen minutes past the cut off time.

When we were alone, I said, “Hey,” still imagining my legs flung around his back and holding tight. “Oh my goodness, it’s good to see you.” I wanted to go in for a gentle hug, before returning behind the counter, but something stopped me.

He smiled and said, “Hey,” back to me.

“About before, Curtis. Sorry I had to be so hard on you in front of the kid. We really have to put our foot down around here. You know. You have to be like, ‘When in charge, take charge’. Especially when you get hard headed recruiters coming in here when they feel like it. And it’s been a really long day. I was just messing with you a little bit.”

“That’s cool,” he said, then added, “Where did you learn to become such a bitch?”

Bitch? “Watch your mouth, Marine.” I winced a little. “Was I that bad?” I’ll show you a bitch.

He nodded. “Somebody taught you well.”

“Yeah. These bitch-ass recruiters,” I said, a little defensively. “Marines, mostly.”

“Calling me and my brothers bitches?”

“Mmhmm. The world’s finest.” I turned away for a moment to open the files room door and click off the lights.

Whether it’s true or not, I have something of a reputation for favoring Marines. My coworkers seem to think the Marines put stars in my eyes. “Something about those blue pants,” I always say. “You know, even the ugly ones make you look twice.” If any of that is true, Curtis started all that.

“Well.” He puffed out his chest. “Everybody can’t wear these blue pants.”

“Thank God,” I answered, attempting to deflate him, but smiling inside.

“Somebody used to like them.”

“Shhhh. Somebody likes them now,” I mumbled with my back still turned.

“Say what?” Oh, God. He heard me.

I just said, “Hmph. These green ones fit fine.” His arms and chest filled out that jacket just right, and I wondered if it all felt as good as it used to.

“Mmhmm,” he said. “Filling them out a little bit too.”

Now, that wasn’t necessary. I did the best I could to keep from consciously frowning, but I was sure frowning on the inside. These damn pants never come back fitting the same once they go to the cleaners. Too baggy in the front, too tight on the hips, too high in the hem. I got self-conscious, thinking how he must have noticed my pockets bulging on the sides the slightest little bit, and as I rubbed down the sides of my pants, I finally came back with, “And they actually match the shirt. Imagine that.” Hmph. Like your ass is as narrow as it used to be.

Now, if I’d have called him a peacock with all those damn non-matching colors, he’d have had his feelings hurt. Red stripes on royal blue pants, pea green stripes on a khaki shirt, black and white Good Humor Man cap. Leave it to the Marine Corps to put such an ensemble together. I stood there expecting his righteous indignation, feeling a little righteously indignant myself.

“All I’m saying is you look good.” He sighed. “And it’s good to see you, too.” His teeth were gleaming.

“Yeah,” I sighed back, and then I was beaming. Matching or not, he still looked good to me. Leave it to the Marines to make some tacky shit like that work.

While I was closing down the counter and straightening up, we talked a little more about his recent past, my recent past, how I’d been, how he’d been, how long he’d been in Atlanta. Then he segued not-so-subtly into guess-what-I’m-finally-getting-married.

Suddenly the smile just stuck to my face. “That’s great,” I said through my teeth, not making as much eye contact as before.

That’s when he told me about his fiancé, Andra-Lyn, and her little phase. I tried not to flinch at the sound of her name. The hell she get a name like that, anyway? Her and her fucking stupid ass phase. I just nodded and smiled. I might as well have been The Joker, I couldn’t stop smiling.

I don’t know what came over me, except the little devil on my shoulder telling me that opportunity was about to come knocking. I couldn’t even remember my last good sex. I had to be working on some kind of record to have gone that long.

I mean, it wasn’t really as if he was a new man. It wasn’t like I was adding yet another name to a list that was already getting too long for me to remember the order.

“So, what time do you leave here?”

“Now,” I said, glad he asked.

“You wanna go somewhere and talk? Maybe get something to eat.”

I should have been thinking, Hell no! Don’t waste a good year of chastity and clean living on his fixing-to-be-married ass. Say no thank you. Damn him. But I said, “Okay.” I smiled like the cat who was about to eat the canary.

“Okay.” He smiled back. “What’s up? Follow me? Or do I follow you? Where do you want to go?” I guess I never noticed how much smiling and laughing people tend to do when they’re up to no good. And yes, there was a lot of smiling going on.

I must have looked like I was giving his question some serious thought, because he threw in, “Oh wait. You don’t eat as much as you used to, do you?” Then he laughed.

I laughed too because at that point all I was thinking was that the chances were better than good that I was going to have sex that night.

Then I said, “Whatever, man.” Thinking. “Anyway, how about you follow me to my apartment. I live near here. Just give me a minute to get changed.” He smiled and nodded. I walked down the hall to the female locker room and changed into my civilian clothes before the drive home.

Chapter Three – Red Light Runners

As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t stop the way I felt when I thought about Curtis, about being with him, about us. I can think of a good three, four, ten reasons why this is a bad idea, but it’s funny how commitment and temptation work on you. He’s committed to someone else, and I keep yielding to temptation. I wish I had a good reason for not being stronger. I abhor the thought of being involved with a married man. A married military man, at that. That was supposed to be my never-never land. And both of us being military makes this thing a particularly bad thing, a court martial offense. But he was mine, first.

It’s kind of like running a stop sign. You know you’re doing something wrong, potentially dangerous. But for some reason, you do it anyway, and keep taking chances doing it. And because you didn’t get caught the last time, you’re thinking, the more you do it, the better your odds are of getting away with it again. You’re thinking, So what the hell? Nobody got hurt. Not really. I’m careful enough. Sort of. It’s harmless. Pretty much. And you continue being selfish like that, as if no one is ever going to get hurt. And always, always, eventually someone does, broad-sided or rear-ended, and never saw it coming. Right now, I’m the one in the driver’s seat. I’m in control of a situation that should have never been. And it’s just like I’m driving on through the same damn stop sign that’s more like a red light. The first 30 years of my life have been sitting on red. When was it going to finally be my turn to go, damnit? I just got tired of waiting.

It was the second week in January 2000, the first year of the new millennium, or the last year of the old millennium, depending on your perspective. However you look at it, it was the year to make some changes. Another year would not go by with me in this situation, bringing in the New Year with a bunch of folks from work, or by myself, or in church, or any of the above, man-less.

One would think it impossible, but there I was, nearly two years in the Black Man Mecca of the South, and man-less. Sans man. Man deficient. Absent man-ness. Now I know how the Ancient Mariner felt. Talk about not a drop to drink. If ever there was a draught of men anywhere, it’s here: Too old, too young, too gay, or too married.

So, I was sitting in the files room at work pulling records for QRP. As usual, there were a couple of records missing for the Marine applicants, so the obvious place to start looking was in the Marine counselor’s office. Instead of getting up walking down the hall, I called.

When I heard, “Atlanta MEPS, Gunny Curtis,” the voice jarred me a little, so I said, “Who?”

“Gunny Curtis,” he repeated himself, raising his voice and sighing. You can just about guess how I liked the nerve of that bastard huffing at me.

So I said, “Gunny Curtis, please don’t scream in my ear.”

He answered, “I wasn’t screaming, staff sergeant. You’re on the speakerphone.” Then he repeated, “Atlanta MEPS,” and sighed again.

All I could think was, I know where the hell I am! Hmph. I answered with, “Can I talk to someone in the Marine Liaison Office.” After a short pause, “Please,” forced its way out of my mouth.

“You’re talking to the Marine Liaison Office. What can I do for you?” I could hear his audience’s amusement in the background.

“You can bring a couple of records for QRP,” I told him. I spouted off the names, something like, “Jones and Roberts are on the floor tomorrow, so we need them.”

“Uh, Who? What?” he asked.

Then I sighed, “Records for Q—. How about this, Clueless? You can get me off the speakerphone and let me talk to somebody who actually works in there.”

All he managed to get out was, “Uh,” before one of the actual Marine liaison counselors picked up the receiver.

He cleared his throat and continued. “Sorry about that, staff sergeant. That’s what we get for letting recruiters answer our phone.”

“Uh, yeah.” I paused for a couple of seconds, damn near forgetting what I’d called for. Finally I said, “Hey Gunny, can you bring us a couple of records for QRP?” I gave him the names and hung up. A couple of minutes later, he dropped the records off at the front counter. Then he sort of smirked as he walked away.

I was in a bad mood for the rest of the day. I felt empty and cheated like I missed my chance to say something, but what did I have the right to say? I’m mad as hell that I fucked you, and even madder than hell that I can’t fuck you again? It was all I could do not to cuss somebody out for asking the simplest question or making the most ambiguous comment. I guess we all go through our days asking each other how we’re doing, and most of us don’t even care about the answer. I’m no different. Depending on the time of day, day of the week or week of the month, I could easily respond with, I’m hungry, my feet hurt, I need a new weave, and I just started my period I’m in dire need of a bikini wax and dire-er need of a man to notice. But I stick with the Just fine, thanks, adding the standard, And you? in passing, like it’s not a question.

All that particular day, saying, Just fine, thanks, when I really would rather have babbled on with, I’m tired, broke, and lonely, I spend way more money than I make, I make way less money than I’m worth, and I want a man of my own, was really a struggle.

When I got home that night, I found Curtis’ business card in my door with a note written on the back. Sorry about today. Call me, please.

I won’t deny that I ran to the phone to call him. I took a couple of breaths and then dialed. When he answered, I told him, “I just wanted to tell you that you shouldn’t be just dropping by over here, leaving notes on my door.”

He cleared his throat before responding. “So what you’re saying is, call first from now on?”

“You know what I’m saying. You shouldn’t be coming over here, or leaving notes on my door. Or anything. From now on.”

“Listen, could I come by in a minute?”

“You already know the answer to that,” I said.

“So, I’ll see you later?”

“You know, I’d rather you wouldn’t. It’s not a good idea.”

“That’s not a no.”

I was tripping at how I was even going through the motions with this conversation. “Curtis, let’s not start this, okay?”

“Start what?”

“Look,” I said. “You know I need a lot of attention, and you—you just ain’t in that kind of position.”

“I just want to talk,” he lied.

“Come on, Curtis. Don’t play me like that. Give me a little bit of credit.”

“Okay, Baby.” I heard the smile in his voice. “What’s up?”

It didn’t help that he was calling me Baby, but I could listen to his voice all night. I dragged on with this bogus exchange, like I wasn’t already considering exactly what I knew he wanted. “You have no idea what it’s been like for me. And to be honest, I’m really just almost at the point of not giving a damn.”

“So, tell me what it’s like,” he said, like that wasn’t enough said.

“You’ve only been married for a couple of months,” I said back. “What do you want with me?” That was a rhetorical question, and he knew it. What did he mean, so? So? “So if I see you again, I know all I’m going to want to do is fuck you.” Okay, that did not come out right.

“Wow,” he breathed a slight chuckle at my lack of subtlety.

“I mean, shit. You know what I mean.”

“I miss you too,” he said. “Really.”

I just held the phone.

Then he said, “See you in a minute, Baby,” as if my silence was the only real answer he needed. Then he hung up.

Awwww—shit! Shit, shit, shee-it! I stood there for a couple of seconds and just cussed myself. No. No. Don’t do this. I cussed all the way to the shower. I had to shave in the shower, because I hadn’t had a recent bikini wax, and I didn’t have any Nair in the house. I cussed while I shaved and bathed myself in smell-good shower gel. I stood and looked at myself in the mirror while I reminded myself how wrong this was.

I went in my bedroom and turned the covers back and lit a couple of candles on the dresser. I sat on the bed in my bathrobe and then just fell back and stared up at the ceiling fan. I thought about what color lingerie I would put on. Or maybe just a bra and panties. Damn! I wish I’d bought those edible pink panties.

Okay. No. No edible panties. “Don’t do this,” I said out loud to myself. I sat up and swung my feet for a few more seconds. Then I went and sat by the front door, for several minutes trying to unmake my made up mind.

When he knocked on the door, I was still sitting there in my bathrobe. I stood up and leaned my back against the door.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he said, his voice muffled through the door. “It’s me.”
“I know.”

“So—what’s up? You opening the door or what?”

My stomach fluttered as I stayed braced against the door. “You know this is a bad idea,” I said.

“Since when is that reason enough not to do something?” His twisted logic made us both laugh. I took a deep breath and turned around and cracked open the door.

I was about to make another reasonable argument when he pushed the door the rest of the way open and kissed me. He came in and pushed his back against the door and held me and kissed me. Kissed me. And kissed me. I managed to get out the words, “I’m just saying I don’t want to get hurt.”

He just said something like “Mmmm,” and kissed me harder and breathed harder and held me tighter.

“I don’t, don’t um…” My mind went blank for a second.

“Don’t what, baby?” he asked. “You don’t want me?”

“Um, don’t want to hurt her,” I think I said, which was exactly true. I didn’t even know her, or care about her, honestly. But I knew what it was like to be hurt like that. Hell, I knew what it was like to be hurt by him like that. And none of that, at least at that moment, mattered one bit. What mattered is that I was feeling too good to want it to stop. Damn a red light.

He reached his hand inside my robe and whispered, “If you don’t want this, just tell me, and I’ll stop.” And he kept saying, “Tell me you want it, Baby. Tell me you want it,” all the while pushing his hand between my legs.

He picked me up off of my feet and turned me around so that my back was against the door and stayed pressed against me. And I kept saying, “Please,” and breathing like I was running from something but not getting anywhere.

And he kept kissing me all over my face, my neck and shoulders, and pulling his clothes off and saying, “Please what, Baby? Say you want it. Just say it. Say you want this dick.”

Hell yeah, I wanted it. I wanted to ride him raw, so hard that he’d feel like I would break it off. I wanted it doggy style and thrown up against a wall and to feel him sweating all over my back. I wanted to take it in the ass and beg him not to stop because he’d be hitting all the spots that couldn’t be reached any other way. I wanted his tongue shoved so far up my pussy that I could feel it in my throat. I wanted to swallow him whole and hear him scream for me and God at the same time. I wanted all that, and I wanted to not want it, but not as much as I wanted it. “I—oh God,” I heard myself about to pray for forgiveness for what I knew I was about to do. “I—can’t. Mmmm. Please.”

And every time I thought I could catch enough breath to say what I should have said, he’d kiss me in my mouth until I could hardly breathe. God, he was feeling good. He was smelling good. But mostly, he was feeling good. I could feel the ripples in his stomach pressed against me.

“Please, what, baby? Tell me,” he said, like he really thought I could.

I couldn’t tell him anything. I couldn’t even think of anything but hard dick. Hard, magnificent dick, throbbing between my parted thighs, begging to go just a little bit farther, all mine, if I dared to claim it. Mmm. My dick. Long enough. Wide enough. Just the right amount of rough. Too close to pass it up. Again. Who was I kidding?

It was like I was some pothead who was suddenly consumed with a fiend’s case of the munchies for forbidden dick. Or a crackhead who just couldn’t resist one more hit of that sweet, smooth, slick pipe that had my jaws tight and my mouth literally aching to taste it again, calling me. “Tell me you want it, baby.”

“I,” was all I managed to get out. We ended up having sex right there against the front door. He had my head spinning. I could feel my body tightening, and then loosening as he slid so easily inside me, welcoming, begging, needing every thrust and stroke and motion that he put on me. I swear, I felt the walls moving and the floor about to give way.

He was exactly what I needed, exactly what I’d been missing, and I wasn’t ready or willing to give him up again. It was right there against that door that I decided. Now, what we do is her problem, not mine.

He stayed all night, holding me close. I don’t know what he told her, and didn’t care, because it felt good to feel good, and up until now, I’d forgotten how good. That sexy, beautiful kind of good that you only get from being touched by a man you can hardly wait to touch you, and when he does, you don’t want him to ever stop.

A few hours later, I vaguely remember staggering to the door to lock it behind him, and then making my way back to the bed. The smell of him was making me hot all over again, so I pushed myself out of bed and stumbled to the shower. I went into work a few minutes early. Even went to PT. On a cold ass day in January.

Just be clear, doing PT, physical training, means running at least two miles. Not only do I hate running, I hate early mornings, which sometimes makes me wonder how the hell I’m still in the Army. People on three continents know I hate PT, so for me to have my ass up and running, things have to be going way wrong or way right. What is it about good sex that makes you feel like you want to do stuff you know that you wouldn’t ordinarily want to do?

Anyway, New Year, new attitude. I told myself that 2000 is the year to come up, not back up. And there’s no room in my life for this second hand stuff that he was trying to get me caught up in. His clock starts ticking right now.

I trudged along the track for a few more steps and then came to my senses. What the hell was I thinking? That sex the night before would make running less of a pain in the ass the next day?

The scales were definitely tipped. I was feeling way too good for my own good. My shift doesn’t start until eleven, but I got to work and was ready to rock by 10:15 or so. And that includes the time it took for me to press my skirt, using the iron and board in the vault, pin my hair up, put on my uniform and adjust my ribbons on my shirt.

I walked into my shop just like any other day except the thought of recent sex had me smiling. I’d expected that today would be a pretty uneventful day, considering the night I had last night. I was still tingling and my thighs practically burned thinking about it.

I came through the door and heard the Charlie Brown theme song playing. Residual Christmas music, I guess. I sat down to a stack of tests that came in from one of the MET—or mobile something-something—sites waiting to be coded and graded, so I dug in. A MET site is one of our remote testing locations in different parts of the state where the test administrator goes to give a paper version of the test for applicants who for whatever reason choose not to come to the MEPS to take the computerized version.

When I looked up, I saw my grown-ass coworkers dancing around, mimicking the Charlie Brown gang in that scene where they were all on the stage getting down to Schroeder playing the piano. I have the best coworkers. Silly bastards.

Chapter Sixteen – Hindsight

I must have been losing my mind. I wanted Curtis next to me.

I wanted his touch. His smell. His smile. His eyes. His tongue in my mouth. His dick in my hands. The taste of him on my lips.

God, I just killed my baby this morning, and I was actually turned on. But I wouldn’t cry again. I wouldn’t think about that baby, or this morning, or twenty minutes ago. Thinking about him should have made me sick, but it didn’t.

My God, I wanted him. He loved the way I touched him. He loved it! I missed his voice telling me how good it feels and how bad he wants me.

I missed the way he would wrap his arms around my waist, caressing that place just above my navel, right below my rib cage, and that place just below my navel right where my hair line starts to grow in. I even missed the way he gets on my nerves when he says, ‘Bout time for a wax, ain’t it, Babe?

I was thirsty for him, and the smooth, sweet, salty sweat from him brow, his neck, his chest, his thighs, his whole body. The thought of him made me lick my lips for any wetness that seeps from his pores. I wanted him in my face, to be in his face, all over his body, him all over my body, whispering screaming, breathing my name, his name dripping from my saturated lips. God! Why was I so damn horny?!

I lay there and thought about how he introduced me to oral sex and how I would hear girls talk about how guys like it better if you’re not so fuzzy down there, and how I talked myself into getting waxed so he would like it better. And I did it for him gladly, although having hair ripped from the roots from the most sensitive area on your body in four or five different directions repeatedly is some painful shit. Hell, I might as well have been losing my virginity all over again.

The first time is definitely the worst. After that, I found that it got much better. The sex, I mean. The waxing is still painful as hell, but at least you know what to expect.

As far as losing my virginity, when that time came, I was practically begging for it. Of course, I’d expected the night to play out the way I’d choreographed it in my dreams. My dreams were always something poetic and sappy that moved in slow motion, because that’s the way I expected love to be.

It was only six and a half weeks after we first met. I don’t remember where my roommates were, but I had the apartment to myself. I don’t know why my mind chose to torture me with this particular memory, but here it was.

It was a warm rainy October night, and I liked the way the room smelled like rain, that clean, breezy, wet leaves and grass smell. Candles on my dresser burned low as I waited. I lay back on the bed, propped up on my elbows with the sheet covering me. As the shower stopped running, a breeze blew through the blinds at the open window.

Steam preceded him from the bathroom, and I thought he looked like a god stepping out a cloud, the towel holding on to his waist until he reached the bed. Water clung to his eyelashes and glistened on his shoulders.

I closed my eyes as he dropped the towel from his waist and then straddled and hovered over me. “Hello, Beautiful,” he said. I loved the way he called me Beautiful, like it was my name.

The thought of him made me wet all over. I ached to have him touch me, to cover me like a wave that rushes over my body, drenching me. Sounds a little Harlequin Romance-ish, but that’s how I was feeling.

Anyway, I touched my finger to my tongue, running my nail across my teeth, imagining him. He took my hand and held it down beside me. I was boiling to the point of evaporation and scorching. When he kissed me, I caressed the back of his head with my other hand.

I said something like, “Now,” in a wispy tone of voice that I’d always wanted to use. This moment that I’d rehearsed so many times was playing out perfectly.

“Uh-Uh,” he whispered. “Not yet.” He lay his body against mine, and rubbed my hair back and kissed my eyelids and shoulders. He pulled down the sheet and kissed my breasts and rested his head on my chest.

“I—.” I felt like this was the place to say I loved him, but he interrupted.

“Shhh,” he said, as if to calm the pounding in my chest. He rolled off of me onto his back. “Come out of there.”

“Huh?” Suddenly, I was reduced to simmering. In the fantasy, I’m all covered up the whole time. He was supposed to get under the sheet with me, like on the soap operas.

“Come here,” he repeated.

I floated toward him, my naked body now straddling his.

“Sit up for me,” he said.

When I sat up, I wanted to cross my arms over my chest, but I didn’t. When he said, “You have such a beautiful body,” I was glad I didn’t cover myself. “Don’t be afraid of me, okay?”

“I’m not,” I smiled. “We’re about to do it, right?”

He smiled back at me. “Put your hands up there. Hold on if you need to.” He bit his bottom lip.

“What for?” I asked, as I reached for the headboard and held on to it like the lap bar on a roller coaster. “What are you doing?”

“Shhh.” he said as he slid beneath me. “Trust me. I promise you’ll like this.” He kissed the inside of my thigh and I shuddered. “You have such a beautiful body,” he said again as he rubbed my legs and then kissed the other thigh. Long and slow and wet, he kissed me, going up, and up and up.

Is he doing what I think he’s doing? At first I pulled away, but he held onto my waist and pulled me back. It wasn’t much of a fight. His tongue stroked me inside and out. He is doing it! But he was right. I liked it so much my whole body shook.

It was like he was inhaling me, nibbling at me, almost biting me. And the shuddering got worse, and I felt myself sweating all over him. Only it wasn’t sweat. I was just wet with excitement and didn’t know any better.

He breathed my name over and over and his name just oozed off of my lips. I wanted to grab hold of him, but I felt like if I let go of that headboard, I would have fallen right off that bed. I arched my back and briefly fought back the urge to beat against the wall and reach for things that weren’t even there. He kept pulling me back down onto his face, more and more nibbling, inhaling, sucking, kissing me all over places that would have embarrassed me if it didn’t feel so good. I bit my lip to keep from begging him to stop. I heard myself making noises, grunts and moans and unintelligible words that made no sense.

Finally, to keep from biting my lip off, I screamed.

He stopped, pried my hands from the headboard and pulled me down to him. The room was dark by now, but I could see the sweaty prints of my hands staining the wall.

“I like that,” he said. His face was wet.

“Like what?”

“The screaming,” he said. “I like it a lot.”

“Well,” I said, “I mean, I’m glad.” And I was shaking like crazy.

“Okay?” he asked.

I was a little dizzy, but I said, “It’s not over is it?”

He laughed and flipped me over to my back. “Kiss me.”

“Huh?” After that? Is he kidding?

“It’s okay,” he said, pecking me on the lips. “Trust me?”

“With my life,” I said, almost like a reflex.

“Why do you always say that?” he asked. I guess I did always say that, and I’d never really thought much about why.

“Why do you always ask me why I always say that?”

“I asked you first,” he said, smiling into my eyes.

“I asked you second.” I smiled back because I thought I could see myself in his eyes.

“So answer the question.”

“Because I do,” I answered so simply.

“Do what?”

“I do love you. And I trust you.”

I was expecting him to say, I love you too. Instead, he said, “So kiss me.”

So I kissed him and it was really wet. I kept kissing him and soon I was bubbling over with all those poetic feelings again, wet and gushy, chills running all through me, like electricity could shoot from my fingers and toes. I pushed him over on his back and pounced on top of him.

“Whoa,” he laughed. “You know once we do this, you’re gonna want it all the time,” he said prophetically.

“I want it now,” I insisted. “I promise I’m ready.” I attacked his neck, his ears, his eyes, his forehead, with nibbles and kisses. “Tell me what to do again.” I wanted to know how to make him sweat.

“It’ll be easier if I start out on top. If that’s okay with you,” he kept smiling as he wiped my hair out of my face.

So we traded places again and he slipped his left arm underneath me. I took a deep breath through my nose and closed my eyes, imagining, fantasizing, dreaming.

“Hey,” he interrupted.

My eyes popped open.

“Look at me.” Then he whispered, “I want you to keep your eyes open for this.”

He kissed me softly at first, a few times like barely kissing me. I arched my back like before and he moved his arm from under me and put his hands just above my head.

“Okay. What else?” I asked, like I was taking notes.

He smiled and kissed me again. Then he gave me a long, slow, really wet kiss. “I want you to moan for me.”

Then I fixed my eyes on his, trying to ignore the sudden quiver in my stomach. I tried to say, “Okay,” but nothing came out.

He stroked my eyebrows with his thumbs as he positioned himself between my legs.

Putting his hands under my thighs, he whispered, “Bend your knees for me a little bit, Baby.”

I bent my knees a little.

He sighed. “A little more.”

I bent them a little more.

“Okay,” he sighed again. “A lot more.” It’s at this point that I was finding that the real thing is a little clumsier than poetry and movies. I breathed in again and opened my mouth as he shoved his tongue down my throat.

“Hey,” I turned away to catch my breath. “You’re kissing me like you’re mad at me.”

He smiled. “Hardly.” Then he kissed me softer. “Is that better?”

“Mmmhmm.” Almost as sweet as the first time he kissed me. “Do you remember the first time you kissed me?” Okay. I was stalling.

“Uh huh,” he said as he readjusted my legs.

I tried to stay focused. I didn’t want to admit it, but I finally said it. “Curtis, I don’t know what to do. Where do I put my hands? Shouldn’t I be— holding something?”

“Hold whatever you want to, Beautiful.”

His ears were within immediate reach, so I held on to them, tracing them inside and out while he maneuvered on top of me, kissing my neck and trailing down to my shoulder. Then he took my hands and held them down beside me.

“Now?” I tried to concentrate on this moment. He didn’t answer me. He kept kissing me and squeezing my hands and dipped his body slowly, kind of rocking on top of me. Just when I felt pressure rubbing against me, he let go of my hands.

I was staring up at the darkness toward the ceiling, rubbing his ears and getting myself ready, and he let go. He turned and reached for the condom in his pants on the floor. I closed my eyes again like I didn’t notice.

“Hey. Eyes open,” he reminded me, as he tore open the package. Then he said, “Here. You can help me.”

“Curtis, you don’t have to use that. I mean, don’t you believe me?”

“Yes, I do, Babe.” Then he said, “I hope you won’t ever—I hope you’ll always protect your body.” He stopped and looked at me. “Even with me.”

Nobody would ever touch me but him. But I said, “Okay.”

“Here. Help me.” He started putting the condom on, unrolling it at the tip, and then he slid my hands down over it as it rolled on. Then he held my hands there and guided himself back to where he’d left off.

As he started to push again, he moved my hands and held them. I looked down, but I couldn’t really see what was going on. He kissed my face but I didn’t kiss him back. He pushed a little more and said, “Come here.” This time, I didn’t gravitate so easily. His arms were underneath my legs to keep my knees bent.

All I could think was, Is he doing it right? “It’s hurting me, Curtis.” I looked up at him.

He rocked back a little without pulling away. “It’s easier this way, Baby. You’re just a little tight. Now, come to me.” So I tried to push toward him. Then all at once, he just threw my legs up with his arms and pushed really hard.

I inhaled a deep breath thinking, Oh my God. He’s going to kill me. I’m going to die from sex. God, please don’t let me cry. Please don’t let me cry. I was squinting trying not to close my eyes.

I was holding on to and rubbing the back of his head, and his face was tucked between the side of my neck and the pillow. My face was wet with tears and tears were running into my ears. When he came up for air, he shoved his tongue in my mouth again, and then started kissing me all over my eyes, my ears, under my chin, and all over my neck. And he kept saying, “Don’t run from me, Baby. Come to me.”

Run from him? Where could I go? All this going on, and my legs were just sort of flung up in the air, dangling.

He was kissing me so hard and sweating on me so much, I could hardly breathe, much less moan. I was trying not to scream or cry out. Though if I had screamed, when I think about it, he probably would have just stopped like he did when he went down on me. And that would have been okay, because this didn’t feel nearly as good. I tried to hold my breath until it was over, but that just made my stomach hurt. So I lay there, sucking in pieces of air, scooching away from him a little at a time.

“Here.” He pulled me down to him and pushed my legs up onto his shoulders, which apparently wasn’t working too well for him because then he moved my legs to behind his back. “Hold on this way. Cross your legs. Don’t let go.” All in one movement, he lifted me up, wrapped his legs around me, and pushed my back against the headboard. Now we’re sitting up.

In the middle of all this bumping, moving and sweating, he said, “Don’t cry, Baby. You know I love you don’t you?” All I knew is he was pounding inside me like he was digging for something on the other side. And then I noticed he was just smiling at me like he’d been watching my face the whole time.

This was not even close to the love scene I’d pictured. “I love you, too.” The words just sort of stumbled out of my mouth. Love? I felt my eyes water up and my throat got tight. I was ready to tell him to stop, but what was the point? We’re doing it now. You can’t take it back. Is he trying to split me in two? I decided not tell him how much it was hurting me, because I didn’t want to mess it up for him. Why is it taking so long?

And I was lying there, well, actually sitting there, feeling stupid. Everybody was right. You should have waited. If hindsight is ever 20/20, it’s at that moment when you realize you should have waited.

Just when it felt like he was about to go through me, he slowed down. He grunted like the wind had been knocked out of him, and his body jerked a few times and he held me really tightly with one arm and slapped the wall with his other hand. Then he peeled me off of the headboard, turned me, and landed me on my back again. Now our heads were toward the foot of the bed. My head was spinning and I could barely focus on his face. I waited 19 years for this? It’s over? On the movies, it lasts all night. On the soap operas, it lasts for a whole episode. Sometimes two.

What was that? Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes? I tried to look over at the clock on my nightstand, but my eyes were blurry from sweat and tears, and I didn’t even really know what time we’d started. I wanted to jerk away from him or turn over or something, but he was still on top of me.

I was wet all over, and him dripping sweat on me didn’t help. He was still smiling as he wiped his face. He started kissing my neck, softly, the way I liked it.

I pulled his hand to my mouth and kissed his palm. Then I took each of his fingers into my mouth one at a time. I must have seen it on a movie or something. Well, wherever I got it from, he seemed to like it as much I liked doing it.

“I did that?” I referred to the beads of water on his forehead, feeling kind of triumphant.

“Yep,” he answered.

I felt him pull away and then lie back down on top of me and that was a good feeling. It was worth getting to this point. I told myself that it didn’t hurt that much.

“You can put your legs down if you want,” he said. “Are you cold?”

I was chill-bumped all over, but I said, “Just a little.” So we got untangled from each other and got under the sheet. Before I had time to lay my head on his chest, he said, “Sit up for me.”

I sat up, and he rolled out of the bed and went to the bathroom. Then he came back and lay down, and pulled me close to him. Okay, the it part wasn’t so great, but this after it stuff was a real good feeling. I lay in his arms, thinking about how good I could be at it if we did it every day. Especially that roller coaster part. He could bend my mind anytime. I fell asleep with the taste of his sweat on my lips.

That same night, I remember him nudging me awake me saying, “Ben.”

“What?”

“The other brother is Ben.” We’d tried to remember the names of all the kids in The Waltons in a conversation some time earlier. Now he remembers Ben? And he woke me up for that?

I just said, “Oh. Thanks.” And then drifted back to sleep.

Now, I tried to think and dream about stuff like that. I missed the person he used to be. Hell, I missed the person he was now. I hated sleeping alone.

I woke up pissed off about nothing and everything all at the same time. It was nothing in particular, but everything. It’s more than just a bad hair day. It’s bad hair. It’s more than just a house with no closet space, clothes that don’t fit right, chipped nails, need of a pedicure, and running out of dental floss. It’s a bad house, bad clothes, bad nails and toes, and having to floss in the first place. And the phone not ringing. At all!

The days seemed to drag on forever. And the longer I went without talking to him or seeing him, the more I felt like shit. That motherfucker. And I just killed my baby. But I won’t think about that.

Read more about The Other Side of 30 and Regina Swint HERE.

Copyright 2010 Regina Swint. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt
Each step she took towards Daryl, the turmoil of regret and excitement mingled in Sarah’s heart.  She was torn by the decision she made to detach herself from falling in love with Daryl, and the commitment she made to fulfill her calling with the orphans.  Excited to see Daryl, her breath became shorter and her heart became faster when her eyes met his.  Her cheeks wore the blush of a school girl in love.  When Daryl caught a glimpse of Sarah, he smiled and walked toward her until they met face to face.  Without hesitation, they embraced intently, like friends wanting more.  He pulled her body close to his.  She felt his warm embrace; she closed her eyes and wanted more.  But the distant sound of children’s laughter brought her back to reality – the reality of why she left and why she came.

Opening her eyes slowly, she moved out of his embrace and away from the gaze of his alluring eyes.  The intensity of them penetrated her soul like flame-kindled wood.  Fighting back the tears, yet unable to verbalize what she was feeling in her heart, Sarah swallowed hard.  “How are you Daryl?” she softly asked, a hint of cracking in her voice.

“Missing you.  We all miss you, Sarah. We expected you to come up for my mom’s homecoming.”

She turned her face from his to distance herself from his disappointment and expectations.  Unable to give him the response he was anxiously waiting for, Sarah whispered in a melancholy tone, “I am sorry, Daryl.  She watched the warmth of his brown eyes dim into a look of distress.  Sarah attempted to divert attention to something lighter, so she quickly asked with more enthusiasm, “How is Missy?”  He shook his head in frustration  and sighed out, “She and Ken are expecting their second child, and she sends her love.  Sarah, what are you doing here?”

“What do you mean?”

“What are you doing in a Catholic convent?”

“This is a refuge for children, not a convent!  I have been called here to help with the orphans.”

“Sarah, you are not Catholic.”

“Nevertheless, this is the place chosen for me, and God is not looking at what denomination I am serving him through.”

“Do they know you are not Catholic”

“Daryl, my heart worships and serves God alone; it is not divided between Catholic and Protestant.”

“I do not understand ; I thought our future was to be together.  When we graduated we had plans to preach the gospel and go on missions together.  The word I am emphasizing is together!”  Daryl stopped talking, took a deep breath, and turned his back from Sarah to regroup.  Moments later he moved closer towards Sarah until their eyes locked.  He tenderly took Sarah’s hands in his, raised them to his heart, and asked with a voice of surrender, “Why did you leave so suddenly, and why are you here, Sarah?”

Copyright 2010 Deborah Brodie. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Tyran recalled sitting at home one Friday night, watching old episodes of Girlfriends on BET. Julian knocked on her door and from the moment he entered, his persona was different. Ty was a very observant person, she had to be with her profession, and had immediately noticed something was wrong. She paused her DVR, “Hey bay,” (Ty would often take the second “b” out of baby when using this term of endearment), “What’s wrong?” she’d asked, concerned.

Julian cautiously glanced up from the beige carpet he’d been staring at since he’d entered her condo. “We need to talk,” he stated hesitantly. Not knowing whether Tyran would start tossing frying pans and glass picture frames in his direction after he finished his explanation, Julian decided he’d remain standing for this conversation. Though he’d never known Ty to be violent, he was cautious with all women, because he knew when provoked, they had a way of flipping the script.

Ty sat the remote control down and gave Julian her undivided attention. “Ok…” she said, still sensing something was wrong. “What’s up?”

Julian stalled, looking at everything except Ty’s eyes. In this moment, as random as it seemed, he noticed how well decorated his lady’s condo was. Everything appeared to be in its proper place. Artwork and huge picture frames covered with family and friends decorated the walls. To someone who didn’t know Tyran, they’d think she’d hired a professional decorator; but Julian knew all too well this was Tyran’s work, because she’d decorated his single family Stucco home in Missouri City, with his permission of course.

Knowing he couldn’t delay this conversation any longer and that Tyran would eventually run out of patience, he looked her in her eyes.

“Ty, what we have is really nice. It’s real cool,” he began. “You’ve been the best girlfriend a man could ever have, but…I can’t see this relationship going any further than this.”

Copyright 2010 Tierra Allen. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

North Yorkshire, England, 1775

Michael ‘Nathaniel’ Clairmont, the Fourth Duke of North Yorkshire, crumpled the missive he’d received from his fiance’s parents as he raked his fingers through his shoulder length hair. Fear tightened his chest as he stepped to the door and called to his squire. “Prepare Caesar, now!”

Stepping back into the room, he addressed his longtime friend, Anthony Faulkner. “I’m going to see Lady Stockholm’s parents. Clarissa is missing. Are you with me?”

Faulkner jammed his tricorn hat atop his head. “Bloody right I am!”

Moments later, after meeting with the Stockholm’s, Michael urged his bay Barb to greater speed along side Anthony’s. An unnatural scattering of branches and leaves strewn about the road ahead caught his attention. He reined Caesar and dismounted for a closer look. Footprints of horses and men marred the dirt and led deeper into the woods where the underbrush lay trampled and broken.

After tethering Caesar to a branch, he motioned for Faulkner to follow him along the path. A piece of green silk shimmered atop a briar bush, and Michael grabbed up the soft material. It was the color he’d last seen on Clarissa. The fragrance of jasmine assailed his senses. His eyes widened in recognition of the scent…the same one Clarissa wore!

He gripped the material in his fist. Bile rose in his throat as fear knotted his gut. Though afraid of what he’d find ahead, he pushed forward; low-hanging branches slapped at his face and caught at his shoulder-length hair. He pushed the foliage out of his way and tromped the underbrush in his desperate search.

When he reached out to block another branch, a silk stocking skimmed his face and he grabbed the stocking for inspection. Michael looked at Faulkner’s worried face, swore under his breath and moved on but a foreboding feeling ate at his senses, almost like being watched.

He couldn’t miss a gown strewn atop the bushes. The shock that tore throughout his system stopped Michael dead in his tracks, his muscles recoiling in reaction. Meticulously arranged over the waist-high bushes, as if in preparation for wear, lay a dark green silk gown, a vicious tear low in the neckline. His gaze moved slowly over the material. Tightness gripped his chest, feeling as though someone had reached in and squeezed his heart, the pain so intense it burned. He touched Faulkner’s arm, and gritted his teeth. “It’s the gown Clarissa wore at the ball last night,” he said in a gut-wrenching rasp. His gaze searched the area until the very thing he wanted to avoid seeing lay before him. His body froze.

A bare, delicate ankle peeked from beneath the underbrush.

Lunging forward like a wild beast, ravaging the area, throwing branches and uprooting ferns, he uncovered her body…clad only in her white satin chemise, splattered with her own blood.

His tortured scream echoed throughout the surrounding forest as he fell to his knees beside her battered body. Praying she might hear, he whispered her name. Touching her bruised cheek–he found it still warm. A flicker of hope ignited within his heart as he pressed his fingertips against the slim column of her throat. Moments later, finding no trace of a pulse, that slight flicker of hope extinguished itself. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts at who could be her killer.

Read more about No Turning Back and Deanna Jewel HERE.

Copyright 2010 Deanna Jewel. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

“Your struggle will only bring you closer to me…but then, perhaps that’s your intention, White Woman. I’m not accustomed to fighting females, but with you, I might make an exception.”

Kate thrashed her head back and forth. Her hands escaped his to claw at his arms as he struggled to confine her. She screamed, but he finally secured her wrists within his grasp.

Taima pulled her wrists and twisted her around to face him, bringing her against his chest, their noses mere inches apart as he looked down at her. Her eyes glistened with rage even in the dark. Her breasts rose against the back of his hand as she still tried to pull away.

He tugged her against his chest again. “I will tame you, White Woman.”

Kate’s lips parted slightly as he held her tight. Such tender lips. Quick, warm breaths caressed his cheek; inter-twining with his own ragged breathing. She would be easy to love had she not felt such a hatred toward the Indian, but he knew those thoughts were as dangerous as her escape.

She continued to pull against his hold. “I will never surrender to your savage touch!”

“You will have little choice in the end.”

“I will always have a choice.”

“Not with me,” Taima replied in a slow, precise tone, the warm glow of her skin reminding him of another woman. He pressed his fingers into her soft upper arms, still holding her against him. “Not another word. Since you detest my touch, consider that your punishment should you decide to disobey me again. And should you attempt another escape, you will regret it when I bare your white flesh for my pleasure, having only yourself to blame.”

Her eyes rounded, her lips parted, but she said nothing.

“I’m beginning to think you enjoy being humiliated. Next, I’ll gag you, should you continue to anger me.” He scrutinized the defiance in her delicate features. “I should strip you naked and march you before my people to show them I have truly mastered you.” Taima knew he could never do such a thing to her, but she need never know that.

Kate only glared at him.

“You may be learning after all.” Taima couldn’t keep the smile from forming on his lips, or resist the temptation to taunt her. She was beautiful when she was angry. “Perhaps I’ll begin taming you tonight, right here.” He weighed the opportunity. “There is no one around to hear your objections.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

He tightened his grasp on her wrists again. “I thrive on dares, so don’t tempt me. We will sleep in my lean-to tonight.”

“We”

Her cold stare covered him like an icy breeze.

Taima slowly exhaled in a sarcastic chuckle. “Do you think after this little escapade of yours that I would allow you to sleep apart from me? Perhaps this high altitude is affecting your mind…or are you always so naive?”

Though darkness shrouded them, he allowed his gaze to travel the length of her doe-skin-covered body. Her nearness heated his blood. He knew this wasn’t a good idea, but proceeded anyway. “Though it would be easier to kill you, I will receive more pleasure by keeping you alive, knowing you will hate every day of your life from this point on whenever I decide to touch you.”

Read more about Never Surrender and Deanna Jewel HERE.

Copyright 2010 Deanna Jewel. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

PROLOGUE

“You’re hiding from me, Margaret.”

Megan clutched the phone and slid to her knees, the tremors in her limbs rendering them useless.

“It’s only a matter of time.” His voice had the sinister resonance of an executioner uttering the words, any last requests?

Cradled in Megan’s lap, the Glock felt heavy against her thigh as uncooperative fingers gripped the handle.

“You can’t live, Margaret.”

Those raspy words incited a very obliging finger to loop through the trigger.

“I know this cell phone is being forwarded, Maggie. That poses only a slight inconvenience.”

A low hum of static filled Megan’s ear, similar to the sound of an electrical tower. She tried to place the sound. Did it divulge his location in any way? Was he close? Panic wormed into her throat, preventing her from responding, although being mute was the best option. Any response would have been verbal confirmation that he had located her, and she wouldn’t give him that one triumph.

“It took some doing to even locate this number.” He paused. “Don’t worry, though, your mother was not hurt.”

Megan’s teeth bit down on her lower lip to contain her scream. She tasted blood.

“Sleep tight, Maggie. I will see you soon.”

There was no audible click, but the humming had ceased. All that was left was the ragged sound of Megan’s breath, and the pounding of the boxer scoring a victory knockout inside her chest.

Megan dropped the phone on the floor and picked up the weapon. So many nights she had clutched it tight enough that her palm was permanently indented from the pattern of the handle.

But, this night was different. For one year the phone had remained silent, and at no point in the last three hundred-some days did she let up. Never once was she lulled into security by his silence, knowing that this night would come.

Megan took a deep breath. She had a lot of work to do.

CHAPTER I

Victory Cove, ME

Dear Jake,

Illness and the need for you to understand your heritage have finally given me the courage to write to you. I know you went to good parents. I have my mother to thank for that. I want you to find her, Jake. I want you to find my Mother. Her name is Estelle Wakefield.

I wish I had an admirable reason for not contacting you sooner, something valiant like I didn’t want to disturb your life. But, the truth is simply guilt.

I loved you, son. In my dreams, I still see the gold in your eyes, eyes that looked so much like your father’s. If only you had known him.

It’s hard for me to write now. I have to end this letter. Find Estelle, Jake. Find Estelle, and find your heritage.

That was how it started.

A mysterious letter from a woman who after thirty-five years of silence, finally decided to make contact with her alleged son.

Now eight hours from home, Jake Grogan was following futile Internet directions to a town that didn’t even register on Travelquest.

Was he insane?

Also adopted, Jake’s sister, Sara, was mostly to blame for this crazy endeavor. Hell, she practically pushed him out the door with the useless map in hand. But her enthusiasm spurred on Jake’s curiosity.

Something in the woman’s words, the woman in the letter, the woman who claimed to be his mother. Something sounded so poignant. So mysterious. It was worth investigating.

Or maybe he was just looking for an excuse to leave Boston for awhile. The Harbor Tower Project which he had slaved over for more than a year was finally complete. To that very same project he had sacrificed a relationship, like offering up a virgin to the voracious manufacturing Gods.

Well, she was no virgin.

Perhaps this trip was just self-amnesty for a lifestyle that kept him too busy to pay attention to those around him.

Or he was just damn curious.

It must have been Jake’s fifth pass down the same road. Victory Cove had one main thoroughfare, an elevated street scarred with potholes big enough to swallow a small child. Antique shops and restaurants lined one side, and a craggy shoreline tapered off the other as successive gray waves sprayed against the shore. Lobster boats cosseted together, bobbed in the swells waiting for spring and their grand release from the jetty.

Grayson Path.

The gas station attendant said that Wakefield House was on Grayson Path.

Rain plastered the windshield, the wipers ineffective against the deluge. Jake leaned forward and squinted until the profile of a lighthouse was visible atop a rocky sea cliff. Tall, with a white masonry surface, its lantern and gallery painted black, Jake waited a breath for the beacon to flash, dismayed when it remained dark.

Past the lighthouse. You can’t miss it.

Jake rubbed a hand through his hair, which was still damp from his last stop. He went nearly seven miles before he saw the rutted trail in the grass.

Grayson Path.

Nature’s potholes jostled the vehicle as Jake pressed forward, twisting down into a deep ravine. He pulled up to a narrow wooden bridge and idled with his foot on the brake. A plank was missing in the middle, and he swore the whole structure listed to the right. It was the sorriest assembly he had ever seen and he wouldn’t dare walk across it, let alone drive his Jeep. Yet, it marked just one of many quirky obstacles in this challenge.

Hands fisted around the steering wheel, Jake cautiously tapped the gas. Amazingly, the structure held up, and for one brief moment he caught a glimpse of the bloodthirsty mouth of the Atlantic to his left. Maybe the water was only a thin strip beneath this narrow bridge, but not too far away lie an entire ocean just ready to lash out with her sodden tendrils.

Another few miles and there was not even a tree to be found on this barren vista of craggy rocks and dead grass. Just as Jake contemplated turning around, the path began to widen. One more incline and he reached a clearing, a plateau that overlooked the Atlantic.

And there sat Wakefield House.

Through the swish of wiper blades it was hard to see, but the Victorian mansion was large, guarded in front by the remnants of a wrought iron gate, the ornamental pattern of metal closely resembling a spider web. The remainder of the fence was long gone, making the crooked gateway a droll deterrent. The house itself stood two stories, with a steeply pitched roof for an apparent third floor, atop which sat a cylindrical turret offering a panoramic view from its ring of portholes. Gable windows with black louvered shutters looked like hooded eyes, and the dark-planked stairs to the front door, a yawning mouth, ready to swallow.

As he walked up the path and felt the tug of the coastal wind, Jake thought the railing most likely had been yanked from its moorings by nature’s vacuum, that yawning chasm off the cliff that churned with froth, begging to be fed.

Jake shook off a chill.

Opening the screen panel, he knocked on the front door and had the sense that he was being watched. A glance at a nearby window confirmed it as he caught the disarranged curtain sway back into neat pleats.

He rapped on the door again.

It was a big house, and Estelle must be an elderly woman, possibly hard of hearing, but someone was in there. He would damn well knock until his knuckles bled.

The woman that yanked open the front door was neither deaf nor old. She was young, gorgeous, and apparently quite ticked off.

“Hi.” Jake made an attempt at amiable.

“Who are you?” She demanded.

Jake saw the white turtle neck, worn jeans and socked toes, but his glance hefted back up to collide with crystal blue eyes that were vibrant around the edges, yet dark and soulful at their core.

“I’m looking for Estelle Wakefield.”

She caught his brief perusal and returned the assessment, meeting his stare head on, her lips thinning in disapproval””or was it apprehension?

“She doesn’t live here anymore.”

“Oh.”

Pain pulsed in Jake’s head. The beginning stages of a migraine. To his surprise, the woman was pushing the door closed. His hand shot out in reflex to stop her.

“Wait.”

“What?” Her cheeks paled.

“Do you know where she is? I’ve come a long way.”

Her sharp glance flicked past Jake to his Jeep which was scarred by splashes of mud and grime. She met his eyes again and Jake nearly felt moved to touch her. She was actually trembling. He could see it in the white hand that clutched the front door, and the soft bottom lip that lost circulation under her unnerved bite.

Jake was intrigued by the woman, but he was here for one reason. That reason sure as hell didn’t involve lusting after a jittery female in faded jeans with a chip on her shoulder that could keep Hershey’s in business for a year.

“Please. Do you have any information?” He persisted more gruff than intended.

Her grip didn’t relax, but she released her bottom lip and Jake had to force himself not to stare as the blood flowed back into it.

“Why are you looking for Estelle?” The question was presented more like an accusation.

Jake didn’t really want to spill the whole crazy story that delivered him to this moment, but with this suspicious creature, he didn’t think he’d get away with anything short of the truth.

“She’s my grandmother.”

The woman started to shut the door again.

“Wait!”

She hesitated at his outburst, and finally drew in a deep breath. The gesture pushed her breasts against a sweater that was much too big for her thin body.

“Estelle has no grandchildren.” She said. “I don’t know who you are, but you better leave now.”

Or else what? Was she going to call the cops?

Jake took a quick survey of the desolate property. Yeah, they’d be here in what, three hours?

“Are you sure?” he asked. “How can you be certain she had no grandchildren? Are you a relative?”

The woman sighed. Her knuckles were still white from her death grip on the frame. Jake made note that there was no gold ring on her finger.

“Estelle had one daughter who was barren.” She declared.

That tripped him up for a second, but he pressed on. “Okay, where can I find her daughter then?”

An odd look passed through those crystalline eyes. “You can’t.” She measured him, and then added softly, “she passed away last week.”

For a moment Jake felt a flash of pain. Or was it disappointment? Maybe it was just the doused flame of hope? Whatever it was, he was overwhelmingly saddened.

“She’s dead?”

He had no idea what the look was on his face, but it must have had an effect on the stranger gripping the door. Her hand dropped like a fallen leaf. She did not step back. She still used her body as a barricade, forbidding admission.

“But” Jake cleared his throat, “she wrote to me, claiming to be my Mother. She told me to come here and find Estelle Wakefield, my” futility dropped the word, “-my Grandmother.”

Whether the woman bought any of this or not, he simply didn’t care. He was too tired and preoccupied to acknowledge her reaction.

“Look,” she explained with less of an edge to her tone. “Estelle is in town. At the Candlelight Center.”

“Candlelight Center?”

“It’s a home for the elderly.” The woman hesitated. She cocked her head to the side; the gesture sweeping the silky hair away from a porcelain cheek blushed by the wind. “She has Alzheimer’s. She’s been there for over a year now.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Jake’s head snapped up. For a moment he thought he heard regret in her voice, but when he met that implacable gaze he realized he must have imagined it.

“Yeah, so am I.”

Jake dawdled, searching for something to add. “Well, thank you for your time, Miss”

“You’re welcome.” She cut him off.

Then, with husky finality she added, “Good bye.” as the door closed in Jake’s face.

He had been driving for eight hours, nine if you counted that last effort to locate Wakefield House, and for what, to have some sexy woman with a short fuse slam the door in his face? Jake was tempted to head back to Boston, but his sister would accuse him of “˜wimping’ out.

Okay, he would put the effort in. Tomorrow he would go to this Candlelight Center, but as for tonight, it was getting late. Now, more than anything, he needed a drink and aspirin.

The rain stopped and the sun was just about to set, with rose bands of twilight blanketing the Atlantic as Jake was able to glimpse a little more of the landscape than he had on the trek in. He passed the giant lighthouse, an eerie exclamation point above the cliffs. It stood as a solitary sentry, channeling the ghosts of ships that had passed by centuries ago into the cove.

Jake realized his foot came off the gas pedal as he stared at the statuesque silhouette, entranced by this image that transcended time. Snapping out of his exhausted stupor, he tapped the gas and wound down the next knoll. The road veered to the right and disappeared around a bend, and if not for his headlights he might have just plodded forward, diving nose first into the ocean. Jarred by his lack of focus, Jake braked and noticed the bright, hand-painted sign.

O’Flanagans Inn ¼ mile.

Maybe it was the vibrant colors, or more likely the sketch of a beer mug (yeah, definitely the beer mug) regardless, Jake’s curiosity was piqued enough to check it out. He wasn’t disappointed when he found the pub and Inn. It was exactly what he needed, drink and sleep.

The white-stucco fasade and its wooden framework gave the Inn a Tudor flair making it feel like he had been transported to a Scottish village. A hand-painted sign dangled from chains atop the black door reading, O’FLANAGANS in dark green letters with gold stenciling. This Inn looked like it catered to the ghostly sailors that the lighthouse had just guided in over the sandbars, but Jake was not as unsettled by it as he had been by Wakefield House. He was exhausted. And he was hungry.

To hell with the Tower Project. To hell with Jessica and her addiction to his income. Damn, he was still trying to decipher credit card statements and figure out what the heck ‘eyelash transplant’ surgery was. And yes, to hell with this juvenile search for a Mother that never wanted him.

To hell with them all.

Jake yanked open the front door and was immediately blasted by an aromatic wave of lobster bisque and yeast followed by a surge of heat from an overhead heater. There were not many people in the dimly lit interior, but the few who were there swung in their seats to gape at him.

Definitely not like the city.

Jake tucked his head down and sidled up to the long oak bar, craving anonymity. His shoe rested on the brass rung at its base as he stared at the ornate beer taps.

“What’ll it be?”

Jake’s head jerked up. A cute, very pregnant woman gave him a congenial smile. She looked to be as far along as his sister, Sara.

Heck, what was going on eight months ago? A power outage? A big snowstorm?

What was he doing eight months ago? The Harbor Tower project was in full swing. Jake had been contracted as its chief electrical engineer. Eight months ago, he was immersed knee deep in blueprints, wiring schematics, and political headaches. There was no chance of him getting anyone pregnant. Not only was there the time constraint, but he had just come off the year-long relationship with Jessica and couldn’t even conceive of the fact that he should jump right back into the saddle, so to speak.

Selfish had been one of the least profane terms his ex had used to describe him. Of course, she used the adjective as she systematically emptied their shared townhouse of anything her glue-tipped fingers could latch onto. In her defense, he was too consumed with work to spend enough quality time cultivating their relationship, but one could argue that she preferred his money to his company any day.

“A Sam Adams.” Jake answered, distracted.

The bartender reached for the tap and plopped down a frosted mug before him.

“Rena?” A voice boomed to Jake’s right.

“Hi, Harriet.” The bartender grinned.

“Where’s that gorgeous husband of yours? He was supposed to be ovah an hour ago to fix my sink.”

Jake watched the bartender flick her wrist to look at her watch. “The stock market only closed a half hour ago. He’ll be downstairs shortly,” she assured.

Harriet Morgan dropped onto the stool next to Jake, her yellow slicker pouring a puddle on the floor around her. She flipped back the hood and cast a long, curious stare at him.

Jake felt himself dissected by the rotund woman. Her gray-blonde hair was tousled into a mild state of chaos, and her puffy cheeks nearly obscured the intense eyes that watched him unblinkingly. She looked like a fat owl.

“Who are you?”

Ah yes, another one of Victory Cove’s congenial citizens.

Jake took a sip of his beer. “Just passing through, ma’am.”

Harriet snorted and looked across the bar. “Serena, quit dawdling, where’s my beer?”

The bartender, Serena, smiled and reached for a mug.

Harriet’s probing gaze jabbed at Jake again. He tried to avoid it. He looked behind the bar at the wide mirror with photographs taped to it. Climbing above that collage, Jake searched the rows of bottles, the ones on the uppermost shelf coated with dust. The pleasant ding of the antique cash register caught his attention as the bartender rang up a sale. She turned just before a plop of water from a freshly cleaned mug landed on the tarnished machine.

“So just taking in the sights, huh?” Harriet persisted.

“Yeah, something like that.” He took another swig of beer.

Jake felt the old woman’s eyes on his attire. His jeans were splattered with mud from the knees down, and the pullover sweater was still moist on the shoulders. Another unladylike snort shot out of Harriet’s nose.

“Mistah, no one comes to Victory Cove this time of year to see the sights.”

“Harriet.” Serena admonished.

“No.” She held up a puffy hand, red and chapped. “This man looks like he’s got a story to tell.”

The bartender chuckled. “And you’re just the person to draw it out of him.”

Jake sighed and looked around, hoping for someone to come in and rescue him from this female inquisition. The bar was empty now, and only a newscaster chatted away on the TV up in the corner.

“I have no story to tell.” Jake tried for a menacing inflection, hoping to dissuade them, but, to his dismay the big woman in the slicker turned in her stool and gave him her full attention. She set her meaty paws down on her knees and leaned forward.

“When did you get into town?”

“This afternoon.”

“It is this afternoon. Did you come right to O’Flanagans?”

“No. One stop.” Why the hell did he say that?

“Where?”

Stubborn, Jake remained mute, although no one beat Harriet in the mulish department.

“Where?” She repeated, and looked him over again as if she could sum up his trek by the shade of mud on his jeans.

“Wakefield House,” he blurted.

Why the hell not? Maybe this intrusive female could give him some answers.

“Ahhh.” Her gray eyebrow shot up and she sat back. “Visiting the Summers girl, where ya?”

“The Summers girl?”

“Megan.” Harriet lifted the frosted mug to her mouth, and in the matter of three long gulps, half the liquid disappeared.

Megan Summers. So the mysterious woman with an attitude had a pretty name to go along with her pretty face.

Jake leaned an elbow on the bar and considered Harriet with renewed interest. “I don’t know any Megan. I was looking for Estelle Wakefield.”

Harriet slammed down her beer. “What the hell would you want to do that for?”

Jake was startled by her outburst. Startled and curious. Curious enough to divulge, “She may be my Grandmother.”

“Whoa-hoah.” Harriet polished off the rest of her beer and shoved the mug forward. “Rena, get me anothah, and get Mr.”

“Grogan.” Jake obliged. “Jake Grogan.”

“Get Mr. Grogan anothah too.”

“Thanks,” he said, “but I have to drive yet. I’ve got to find some place to sleep.”

Harriet snorted again. “You ain’t goin nowhere, Mistah. Right, Rena?”

Another Sam Adams plopped down before Jake as Serena grinned. “Mr. Grogan, the entire second floor of the Inn could be yours for a very reasonable price. I don’t get many tourists this time of year.” She pushed Harriet’s mug across the bar. “Why, if you can help Brett fix Harriet’s sink, the price will be even lower.”

Jake felt he had taken a turn into the surreal. Perhaps that last sharp turn on the road took him to a parallel universe. He glanced from the pregnant bartender’s smiling face, to the puffed up bird of a woman sitting next to him. Outside, the Atlantic’s gusty wail assaulted the pub, the high-pitched screech enough to dissuade anyone from venturing into the night.

What the hell?

He lifted his mug. “How can I turn down a deal like that?”

Copyright 2010 Maureen A. Miller. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

At the station lot, they quickly spotted the Mustang and got themselves organized to begin their trip Down East. They’d already put a change of clothes in an overnight bag and stowed it in the trunk. Before anything else happened, Cam loosened his tie, unbuttoned his shirt at the collar, and put his jacket on the back seat. He was all set. “Ready to travel, ma’am?”
“Ready, driver.”
Considering that they were in the midst of Friday rush-hour traffic, and that sunset was at a little after eight o’clock, they might run out of daylight before they got to Sturbridge. Didn’t matter. The evening and tomorrow were theirs to spend any way they liked.
When they were on a stretch of I-86 that had been completed, Cam let his ‘horse’ run. “Handles eighty, eighty-five pretty well,” he said.
“That is, until a state trooper spots you. Guess you like driving fast. It’s a part of your persona that I haven’t met.”
“I’m kinda short, so it makes me feel taller. No? Then let me try something else. I’m in a big hurry to get you into bed. Hmmm. Guess not. Seriously, do you want me to slow down?”
“Please? I’m not used to riding with Mario Andretti. If we’re fortunate enough to get there in one piece, we’ll be able to enjoy the treats that’ll be available later on.”
Cam pulled into the Drover’s Inn at a little after eight o’clock. They’d made exceptionally good time. After they checked in and had changed into something casual, they went off to find the Tricorn Tavern, a place recommended in an area guide supplied by the motel. It turned out to be a pretty good choice. The decor was colonial, the drinks tasty, the food appetizing, and the prices reasonable. It wasn’t quite high season yet.
“Back at the motel, Vicki asked, “We still have tomorrow ahead of us, but can you guess how I feel about our trip so far?”
“Let me try. You’re miserable and want to go home. Tonight.”
“You silly, lovable man. I already have such good memories to take back with me, but I’m really anticipating a wonderful day tomorrow. Everything is so different in the spring. It’s such pretty country and there’s so much history. I could easily live here.”
“It’s an option then, after your project is finished?”
“Certainly is, but it’d only work if the man in my life, the anchor I need, is here to teach me how to be a New Englander.”
“How would I know much about that? I was born in the Hawkeye State and lived in California for years. But we might turn out the lights and try studying some lessons together.”
“Wonderful idea, professor. Maybe there’d be time for another one before we leave in the morning.”
And there was. The complete privacy they had in this distant setting seemed to enhance what they shared.
After breakfast, Cam asked, “Ready to do The Village again?”
“I’m ready for whatever involves you, my love. But, yes, you know I am. We promised that to each other six months ago.”
They parked in the lot at Old Sturbridge Village, bought their tickets, and spent hours wandering the two hundred or so acres that took them back in time to the early 1800s. When their breakfast wore off, they ate at the tavern on the Village grounds. An enjoyable outing, but Cam could see that they’d get back to Sudbury later than planned. “So what,” he thought.
After they’d worn themselves out walking what seemed to be miles, they drove to the lots that Cam showed Vicki last fall. At the big granite outcrop they’d climbed over the last time, the laurel was in bloom. Vicki remembered it, and said, “The waxy leaves and the white and pink flowers are just beautiful. I’d love to somehow take one of the little plants back with me.”
“Not sure it’s true, but somebody once told me they’re protected and you can’t disturb them. I said in November that they’d be in bloom-just for you. But, if you want to see them again, you’ll have to come back. They bloom every spring. ”
“Will we be then what we are today?”
“Let it go, Vicki. We’re here to enjoy the day, not predict the future.”

After they’d walked the lots again, they went down to the cottage where they’d parked. It was just beginning to sprinkle, so it was time to get inside. To his surprise, there was a single bed of sorts in the living room. Cam assumed that the previous owner had left it behind. Vicki saw it and said, “Make love to me here. I want it to be among my memories of your place in the woods.”
And they did. Then it wasn’t but minutes after they were dressed that there was a knock at the door. They glanced at each other. Neither of them had the faintest idea who it could be. Cam looked out and saw that it was his broker, Owen Thorpe.
“Hi, Cam. Didn’t recognize the new car, but I remembered your vanity plate and thought I’d say hello.”
“Hello, Owen. It’s been a while. Just checking the place over to see if there’s anything I left behind. I was about to come over to your office to give you some money and sign the contract on the lots.” Cam didn’t especially want him to see what had been going on. The little bed was a mess, and he might assume that it was their doing.
Then it started to rain. “Could I come in?” Thorpe asked. “I’m getting wet.”
“Sure. It’s drier in here.”
Owen saw Vicki and said hello. It was obvious to him that since Natalie was gone from the scene Cam had wasted no time finding a romantic interest. It was easy to see that Owen was taken with her. Few if any young women in the area matched her beauty, and Owen’s lust was on display. Cam finally introduced them.
“I won’t keep you,” Owen said. “I’m on my way back to the office, and I’ll get your file out so we can finish up our business. See you in, what, about half an hour?”
“Less than that, I should think. We’ll be pretty much right behind you. I’ve gone through the place once and only found a couple of things that were mine. Just give us a few minutes.”
After Owen was gone, Vicki said, “Did you see how he looked at me? He practically undressed me on the spot. The guy’s a lecher.”
“Not to worry, love. I’ll be that knight in shining armor you’ve referred to in the past.”
Before they left, Cam made one more pass around both levels to make doubly sure that he’d gotten everything. When he came back to the upper floor, he couldn’t find Vicki. The rain had stopped, so he assumed she’d gone outside. He found her on a landing about halfway down the long set of steps that led to the pond below. She was staring intently at the stream that was cascading downward alongside the stairway. But there was more to it than that.
“Vicki? What are you doing?”
She didn’t answer. When he went down to see if she was OK, he found that she wasn’t. Tears were streaming down her face.
“Talk to me, Vicki.”
“This is so beautiful, so serene. I just love it here. But I’ll never be a part of it, never share your retreat on that snowy night that I’ve always dreamed about. I’m certain of it.”
“What you’re saying is you’ve decided that in time you’ll cut me, and this, out of your life. That means you’re choosing the path we’ll follow. I’m not ready to give up on us. If you have, then you should be honest with me, and yourself, and tell me if I’m right.”
“No. I don’t know what it is, but I’m sure this is the last time I’ll be here. The thought of that makes me sad, so terribly sad.”
“Didn’t we deal with this same premonition last fall? I thought we decided then that we couldn’t predict the future. If you want answers now to questions about our tomorrows, I don’t have them.”
“Oh, Cam. Just hold me.” He did, and Vicki sobbed. There were no words. Vicki couldn’t talk, and Cam had none. He didn’t quite know what to make of what was happening. But his instincts led him to suppose that Vicki was posturing herself to look elsewhere for a husband. Cam let her anguish run its course. Later, when she’d gotten herself under control, and her eyes were about back to normal, they left to keep their date at Thorpe Realty.
At the beautiful 1800s colonial house that served as his real estate office, Thorpe greeted Cam and Vicki at the door and then asked them to join him at a conference table. Vicki sat quietly while Owen and Cam made the contractual exchange of the cottage for lots 146 and 147 on Hemlock Drive. Cam wrote out a check and signed the land contract that bound him to the buy. After Owen was finished staring at Vicki, he asked Cam if he’d consider coming to work for him. “You’re the kind of man I need to run my companies out here at the lake. Not many capable people around town. Oh, sure, there are lots of plumbers, electricians, carpenters, and the like, but very few men, or women, with a good business head. You’d need a broker’s license. Wouldn’t be a problem. I could help you get it. Think it over.”
“I’m pretty well set down on New York Plaza, so I can’t see much reason to uproot and make the change. If things go to hell, and that’s always possible, I might just come back and talk with you further about what it is you have in mind. I like it up here. But more about that some other day. We’re out of time and have to be on our way back to Sudbury. The boys will be home before long, and there’s no one there to look after them. I try to avoid letting that happen. Thanks for the offer. It’s good to know that you feel I might be able to fit into your operations here.”
“Keep me in mind. We’d work together well. And let me know when you want to put up a building over on your lots.”
“I’ll be in touch when the time comes.”
Ready to start back, Cam asked Vicki if she’d like to drive. “No, you’ve worn me out, or I wore myself out over on the stairs. Maybe it’s today’s excitement or that my cycle has done me in. All related, I suppose. No, it’s your ‘horse’, and I’m very happy sitting in the right seat. If I get drowsy, I’d rather that you have the reins.”
Things change, and Cam reflected on how different this drive home was from the last trip they’d made into Massachusetts. There was small talk then, but this time Vicki was mostly quiet on the way back.
When they weren’t far from Sudbury, Cam finally said, “Penny for your thoughts.”
“Just thinking about yesterday’s meetings, the beauty of last night, and again this morning, and the abysmal frame of mind I let myself fall into at midafternoon.”
“You’re tired, and Monday is on your mind again. It’s a mirror image of the last time you were here. Maybe a recuperative hug will help you mend. I’ll see that you get a couple once we’re home. And let’s plan on eating out. It’s too late to start dinner.”
“That suits my mood. Be good to sit with the boys and open up with them about what we did. And you’re right about Monday. These trips I make are hard on both of us. The arrival is wonderful. The departure isn’t. But I like the idea of a hug. That also suits my mood. And I’ve discovered something. I’m generally ‘down’ after my fertile window closes. As I look back, there is a pattern. Usually I’m too busy to think about it, but when the pressure is off I have time to recognize that I am a bit depressed. Sorry to be gloomy. When I get home, I’ll be angry about having been a killjoy when we have only a few days together.”
“Don’t worry about it. A hug with healing powers will help, and you’ll be back to normal tonight.”
Vicki finally smiled and then squeezed Cam’s hand to show him that she was on the mend. “There you go again. Dr. Gordon’s special medication for an ailing Vicki. I feel better already.”
“Good. Now that we’re home, take that great smile up to number 710 and wow the boys.”
“I’ll show them nothing less than radiant sunshine.” And that’s exactly what they saw.
Afterwards, Cam delivered on his promise to give Vicki his special version of a recovery hug. She trembled slightly, held on, and felt much better following his treatment.
Cam and Vicki each had a drink, and then got the boys organized to go out for Italian, again, at a new place in town called Puccini’s. The owners named it after the famous Italian composer. “I read that the guy in charge of the pizzas is from the old country. He makes them with thin crust and they’re very tasty. At least that’s what the food columnist wrote in the Sunday paper. Want to give it a try?”
“Affirmative responses times three made it a unanimous vote.
After they’d been seated, each of them had a drink and at the same time ordered something other than pizza. Later, when they’d finished, everyone said their meals were good. Just as important, they all had a good time. The dour mood of late afternoon was greatly improved.
After the lights were out, Vicki thanked Cam for helping her overcome a bad case of the blues and followed it with a loving at its affectionate best. The two weary lovers then kissed softly and slept like embracing logs.

Sunday, Vicki’s last full day in the East, dawned bright and cheerful. Her frame of mind was back on track and equally sunny. She apologized again for having been morose before they started home yesterday. “My trip is so short. Every hour should’ve been filled with happiness. I let you down.”
“Forget it. We’re fine now. Let’s enjoy the time we have left.”
They relaxed and achieved their objective. It was a good feeling. Late in the afternoon, Cam and Vicki took drinks to the terrace and watched the sailboats out on Long Island Sound. No discussion about where their lives were going, or world affairs, or any other matter of substance. It was a time to unwind and just be themselves. It worked. It could be Vicki had concluded that this would be her last trip, that her plans for a life with Cam Gordon were destined to fail, and that she might as well enjoy these last moments with this man she cared about so much. It might be interpreted as a sense of relief that the future was now clear to her. If so, she was still well ahead of Cam and what direction he would allow his personal life to take. But there, too, his cautious approach to relationships was defining the path that would be his into the foreseeable future. He enjoyed the company of different women at different times, and until he was as certain as humanly possible about th
e next Mrs. Gordon, he would let the future unfold by itself. There would be no plan, no goal, and no target date. Cam had just turned thirty-nine, was in good health, virile, and in no rush to remarry. His sons, at least Jon, looked at the future rather differently.
As afternoon faded into twilight, Cam and Vicki put dinner together and then had a family meal on the terrace. The weather was exceptionally warm for late May, so it was a pleasant evening they shared, Vicki’s last in New England. The boys enjoyed it, but they were also looking forward to seeing Cris tomorrow afternoon.
That night, and early the next morning, Cam and Vicki said their goodbyes with the same fervor that had always been there. Later, they all had breakfast together and not long afterwards the two of them left for Kennedy. Vicki hugged the boys, told Jon she was proud of him, and then she and their dad were gone.
As with Veteran’s Day last November, Memorial Day traffic was lighter than on a regular weekday. Even so, it was busy because it was perfect beach weather. They arrived at JFK in plenty of time for Vicki’s flight at noon. After she’d checked in, they went for coffee.

Read more about A SEASON OF TRANSITIONS and R. M. Gibson HERE.

Copyright 2010 R. M. Gibson. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.