Sensuality™
Volume Two
The Collection of Bedtime Stories for Adults™
By Laura Dawn Lewis
Smashwords Edition
ISBN:#145-38-5488-6; EAN: 9781453854884,.Paperback Edition
ISBN #978-1-4524-4775-9, Smashwords Edition, Released 2010
ISBN # 0-9671042-7-0, Electronic Edition, Released 2003
Copyright 1998-2010, All Rights Reserved.
Also Available: Sensuality Volume One™
The Collection of Bedtime Stories for Adults™
ISBN # 0-9671042-8-9 Paperback Edition, Released 2010
ISBN # 0-9671042-0-3 Electronic Edition, Released 2003
Published by Couples Company, Inc.
4320 S. Centinela Blvd, Los Angeles, CA. 90066
public@couplescompany.com
Copyright © Couples Company 1998-2010
All Rights Reserved.
PARENTS: The Sensuality Series contains adult themes, adult language and vivid, detailed sexual descriptions that may be offensive to conservative readers. Though not prohibited, this content is not intended for children under 18 years of age. Parental discretion is advised.
For private personal use only. No portion of this book may not be reproduced or distributed in part or in whole without the explicit consent of Couples Company.
Sensuality is fiction. Though locations mentioned may exist, the stories, characters and situations described are purely fictional. Any similarities to persons living or dead are coincidental.
Legal: The articles, opinions and views provided in this book are not intended as medical, legal or financial advice. All information is provided for entertainment purposes only. Articles and content contained herein are not to be used as a substitute for medical attention, diagnosis, treatment, or other professional mental health or medical services. As laws, details and personal situations vary from person to person and state to state, articles and content contained herein are not and cannot to be used as a substitute for legal, parental. health, mental health, career or financial advice.
What People Are Saying About the Sensuality Series:
“Sensuality is an Understatement!”
“Caught me off guard! Forget having Blockbuster night, go for a Sensuality night but good luck making it to the end of a story without getting distracted if your wife is in the room. Women can write like this? Trust me, pictures are not needed. The author's words put you right in the action and how she knows what men experience? How did she do that? How could she do that! I swear she was man in a former life. The third story Midnight is a man's ultimate dream...I definitely want one of those. The last story is incredible, worked that scenario on my wife and she coming back for more, literally. This is class, something you have no problem sharing with a woman. It says volume one. Does that mean a two is on the way?”
“Perfect for sharing intimacy over long distances”
“I'm terribly shy and Miss Lewis' vivid imagery and writing provided some intimate moments for my husband and I while he was away on business for three months. The author has an incredible ability to enable a woman to understand what a man thinks, sees and hears sexually and vice versa. Most erotica I don't like because it is so crass. Sensuality isn't. It's beautifully written, visual and covers both relationship and sexuality issues and provides a great little script and steady build-up for phone flirting or anything else you want to do to start the evening on a passionate note! I can't wait to read my husband volume two!”
"Imaginative & Stimulating!"
"The scenarios are imaginative, unique and appealing. Each story provides a good build-up followed by stimulating sexual situations that are explicit enough to be arousing, but not too hardcore to be intimidating--or worse, offensive."
Amber M.:
About.com Guide to Straight Women's Erotica
"Very Compelling...This is good stuff!”
“Miss Lewis' words and images are VERY compelling. This is very good stuff!!!!!"
Dr. William Saleeb:
Author and English Professor, UCLA
“Couldn’t Put it Down!”
"I read the whole book in one sitting and couldn't put it down! I was reluctant to read it and figured I would read just one story. I read the whole book in one sitting and couldn't put it down! This is excellent!"
Carlos Darquea:
Former VP Marketing, Victoria's Secret
SEXY, SENSUAL AND SOPHISTICATED
I discovered this author through another of her books on a totally unrelated subject Laid Off Now What?!?: Book 1: Thriving Financially through Unemployment (Volume 1) and I was so impressed with that I gave this a try. Whoa! Still trying to get the book away from my husband who really loved the last story. Gave us a couple of really good nights and I've given it to a couple of friends for bridal showers with other gifts. Was nice to have something sexy that didn't make me feel like I needed a lye scrubbing after, though I am still blushing.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Travel with Leslie from exclusive LA eateries to the hidden serenity of Lake Wenatchee's Cougar Inn. Discover with her the first bloom of forever. Wilshire is a Cinderella rock and roll story with a Led Zeppelin inspired Latin beat!
How raunchy can a story get? Kiko is about to find out when he begs his girlfriend Nita to tell him a story. With a wink and a flirt, her story begins featuring Brandy, a call girl, eight men and a little hidden brothel called the Speak-easy. As Nita speaks she carefully crafts the story, incorporating all she dare not do with the longing dreams of those trapped by employment yearning to escape. What Brandy wants she wants. How will Kiko respond?
Four women decide to rekindle their youth through a slumber party. At this party they discover secrets about each other’s lives while each shares a sexy story with the group. This story includes the following four stories.
Hell week is over and the pledges now become privy to the secrets of Tri-chi fraternity. Deep in caverns below the house, well below the surface, a young man’s ultimate playroom waits. A bar, companionship and a wall covered in human butterflies that no man will ever forget! Fraternity is a favorite with men and the ultimate fantasy of satisfaction for every woman.
What would happen if you woke up in your husband’s body and he woke up in yours? You've got his body and he has yours, only you still have the mind that goes with your own body?
Man in the Review Mirror, (Jackie’s Story)
Ever been stuck in traffic and caught the glimpse of someone gorgeous behind you in your rearview mirror? With forty-five minutes to just sit and wait in the blistering heat for the mess on the 405 at the 105 interchange how does Jackie amuse herself?
Cindy, like most women struggles with her weight. Though not fat at a size twelve, she’s not exactly thin either. One night she passes a boutique with a sign touting a sale. Behind the counter a gypsy woman pulls for her a dress. Magically the dress transforms her body to a size six and she emerges from the dressing room a knock out.
INTRODUCTION
Sensuality Volume Two is the second book, and most likely the final book in the Sensuality Series, which I first sat down to write in April 1996. This particular edition was written in late 1996 and early 1997 and will serve as a pleasant journey back in time for Generation X. At the time I was twenty-nine and thirty-years age.
About the Locations
Some of the places do exist, but the events do not. In Wilshire I talk about the Cougar Inn, a real boutique motel with bungalows in Central Washington on Lake Wenatchee. I did stay there in 1994 and describe it much as I remember it.
Today the term ‘cougar’ is used to describe sexy women in their thirties and forties dating men half their age. The term did not exist when I wrote the story. The other locations in the story also exist. They were simply part of my everyday life in the mid-nineties and I wrote them into the story.
Likewise in Size Six I describe 82nd Avenue in Portland, Oregon. This was the cruising strip and during high school my best friend and I hung out on every Friday and Saturday night and we always ended the night at Burger King® with fries. It’s a fond memory from my youth. The boutique however, does not exist. West Hollywood as described in Vis-Versa is true to the time as well.
Ironically, about two years after I wrote the story Man in the Rearview Mirror, a similar traffic accident as described did occur somewhere off the East Los Angeles Interchange. However at the time when I wrote the story, though the area described exists, the accident did not.
The Speak-easy in Pittsburg and the secret rooms in Fraternity do not exist, though I did gain some inspiration for that story from the frat parties I attended at Oregon and Washington State Universities while playing Quarters and listening to the young men talk. Both locations and situations however, are figments of my imagination and I hope they stay that way.
Moving Forward
Today I am forty-four and now have a number of books under several pen names, some fiction, some non-fiction and over a thousand articles and research reports to my name. The Sensuality Series is how I developed my style of writing that plays upon imagery, a style that is the hallmark of articles my partner and I have written over the years on human rights issues and published under his name. We have won a number of journalism awards for our work and it has been instrumental in changing the direction of the European Union on certain political issues.
However, this is where it all started, where it all began, with the Sensuality Series.
I considered updating it for 2010, the year I am finally releasing it, but decided not to. I’m going to let the references stand. The bands, the locations, the songs, these were all part of the mid-1990s. This was before iPods and iTunes, pre-Facebook and texting. We didn’t have GPS in our cars and the internet was just starting to catch on. It was before 911, before the Patriot Act and Homeland Security, prior to the Great Recession and two wars. It was the beginning of the Internet bubble and it was a magical time to be young, successful and hopeful about the future.
So much has changed.
This is the primary reason I believe this will be the last in the Sensuality Series. It’s not that I don’t have dozens more stories in my head. I do. However like many people, my life took a dramatic turn following the attacks of September 11, 2001. During the months following the attack I became acutely aware of propaganda and began investigating. Through this I discovered much of what I believed about the Middle East and Arab and Muslim cultures specifically was formulated by misconception, falsehoods and lies. By 2003 I began reporting on the region with my partner based there and started working on interfaith understanding between the three faiths of The Book: Christianity, Islam and Judaism. Eventually this changed the direction of my life and I am now devoted to human rights work and creating understanding between people of different faiths and cultures, ending racism and helping people appreciate and understand each other as fellow human beings. Erotic writing doesn’t really fit into that, even if it is fun. I’ve been called hypocritical by fundamentalists in all three faiths because I’ve written the Sensuality Series. To each their own.
Perhaps it is hypocritical, but the fan letters I get from this series tell me husbands and wives use the book to strengthen their relationship, that they appreciate I bring up difficult subjects in the stories and this opens the lines of communication. That is the intention of this series, to foster intimacy on all eight levels through intellectual foreplay. Based upon your feedback, it appears this series has done its job.
Thank you for reading,
Laura Dawn Lewis
Author, Sensuality Series
WILSHIRE
Leslie sat back in her car, her mind searching for answers. Any answers other than those she had. She was not willing to admit the truth. Not yet, it was too painful. An idiot a fool, she knew it. But why wouldn’t her heart believe it? Once again she was in love with a man; once again he was emotionally unavailable. Shades of her father? She wondered.
Time beat its cruel march torturing her thoughts with enigma. In time she knew this too would pass. But how would she ever make it through the next several days? How would she ever make it through the nights? The nights were by far the worst, with their endless dark stigma of solitude—void and without his touch to comfort her. She would be alone, so completely alone. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe he hadn’t taken her seriously when she said she had finally had enough. It wouldn’t take much, just to turn her car around and…
No!
She was through playing the fool. He had ignored her, insulted her, verbally abused her and degraded her. He was not worthy of her, this she knew. Not once had he ever brought her flowers. Games were his calling card. He kept her isolated from his life like a concubine; never introducing her to his daughter or taking her to parties at his friends. How she hated him, despised him and his arrogant indifference!
Festering and bleeding from within, anger allowed her not to admit the fear she now felt. It clouded her judgment and permitted her a feeling of righteousness. The truth being he was the only person she knew in Los Angeles!
Terminal thoughts plagued her judgment, lament manifesting as physical pain. Her body ached, anguishing and postulating from his absence. It was as if a thin sheath of longing choked her with its non-penetrable force field. Would she ever know a man’s touch again? Could she? Oh God! What if he was her last chance, her last love?
Tears kept in check until now burst forth, clouding her contacts and making it nearly impossible to see. She had to get a grip on herself she knew it, even if only until she got home.
Searching for distraction, she glanced at the cars around her: Five Mercedes, two Jags, a couple Lexus’. Her 1989 Escort seemed terribly out of place on Wilshire Boulevard during rush hour in Beverly Hills.
“What do all of these people do for a living anyway?” Leslie sniffled angrily under her breath.
Financial deprivation, though temporary, was just one of her current challenges. Los Angeles had this sobering effect on people. No matter how much money she made, she always felt the pauper.
Grimacing, a half-hearted smile pursed her lips. For the first time, she was beginning to wonder if relocating to LA was the right decision. Home seemed so far away now.
Barely two months had passed since she had arrived from Montana carrying only the belongings she could fit in her car, two cats and a trunk full of dreams. With a promotion and the ink still wet on her degree, relocating wasn’t as scary as it could have been. It was worse. Thankfully, she had Steve.
She had met Steve over a year ago on a business trip. Charming and charismatic, she found herself enchanted by him. Every trip to LA, and they were frequent, brought a renewed fervor of adoration. He courted her like royalty, taking her to the best restaurants, the theater and the even the most exclusive clubs. Leslie had never been treated so well. Each weekend with him seemed like a honeymoon, one that would never end. When she was offered a promotion in the City of Angeles, she jumped at it. Though Steve was not the reason for her relocating, he was a powerful catalyst.
Yet, things got strange fast.
Steve was the managing partner of an advertising agency. His work was brilliant, his style unique and the agency had acquired many prestigious awards and clients under his spectacular direction. It looked as though there would be no end to his success.
However, the agency business is fickle she soon discovered.
Within three weeks of her relocation, Steve lost his most lucrative account. With no new client and several accounts in revue, the agency’s income plummeted forcing layoffs of the entire lost account’s staff. Though Steve remained at the helm, the stress of the situation soon took its toll. Taking a leave of absence, he disappeared for several weeks to sort things out. Leslie had no idea what was going on, only that his calls stopped, she was scared, confused and alone in a new city, struggling to survive.
Five weeks passed. Nothing.
Feeling abandoned and rejected, she consoled herself as best she could. And although her mind told her all of this had nothing to do with her, she was finding it increasingly more difficult not to take it personally. When he finally called,
Leslie couldn’t wait to see him.
But he wanted nothing to do with her. Instead, he became resentful of her, evasive and secretive. Suddenly, he didn’t have time for her. Even sex was out of the question.
Leslie knew what he was telling her. She was a token, a frivolity he could take or leave. He was telling her to leave him alone; he wasn’t available. His only consistency? A displayed cornucopia of mixed messages. She needed to face the truth. She knew he would never let himself get close to her. So why couldn’t her heart leave him?
The traffic doggedly inched down Wilshire. Exhaust fumes from dozens of idling engines combined with the stifling summer heat creating a thick soupy air. Breathing was nearly impossible and oxygen, a precious commodity. She barely noticed. Through her tears, the world blurred and time no longer seemed real. She wanted to go home, let it all out, isolate and disappear.
If only she could stop thinking about him! Absently she toyed with the gold braided chain hanging from her neck. It was a gift given to her by him in one of his few moments of indulgent romanticism.
Lightly she ran her hands up the smooth flat weave. The metal gleamed with the tepid warmth emanating form her body. Wrapping the chain between her fingers, she methodically tightened its grip around her neck. Tighter, tighter, she could feel the metal cutting into her skin. With each twist, the tears fell faster, dripping precariously and leaving a trail down the center of her crisp cotton blouse. She hated him for what he was doing to her, but not nearly as much as she hated herself for letting him. She needed to break the ties, cut him off. She needed to…Snap!
The gold chain broke in two sliding silently into her lap. Picking it up, she lamented. It was all she ever really had of him. Strange how all of her men came down to mere tokens.
Softly dangling the gleaming metal trinket before her eyes, she gazed as the sun’s reflection bounced off the links to dance on the vinyl. Little dots of brilliant lights chasing each other like fireflies. Her mind focused on them as they scattered precariously atop the charcoal dash.
“So beautiful,” she wispily thought.
An arrogant honk from the Mercedes behind jolted her from her trance. Again the traffic was moving forward, but just barely.
She glanced up. A few cars ahead, a decrepit old man wearing a cardboard sign solicited change as he wove his way through the captive jam of potential benefactors. An intersection ritual, to which her guilt would never be immune, her eyes moved to watch him hobble futilely, accepting rejection before hoping anew.
As he approached, she motioned him near.
Taking one last look at the chain, she spoke.
“Here, I have no more use for this,” she stated, dropping the bobble into his cup. Then, pausing for a moment, she grabbed the doggy bag from lunch out of the backseat and handed that to him.
“God bless Miss!” he thanked in a breathless voice, wheezing in weakness and close to tears.
“Been two days since I eaten. God bless, God bless!”
Smiling halfheartedly, she watched him scurry to the side of the road to partake in her lunch. He would enjoy it far more than she.
“Why,” she wondered. “Did this city have to be so cruel?”
Then again, why did life, no love need to be so painful? Secluded in misery, Leslie again could feel her eyes welling up in tears. Isolated by her thoughts she continued, oblivious to the dark green limousine pacing beside her.
___________________________
Hidden from view, Rogêrio (pronounced: Hrow-share-e-o), Deio (pronounced: Day-o) for short, sat slumped in the corner of the long dark green car, contemplating his life. Next to him, his manager and agent Ambro Thorne related an endless series of details he could really care less about. It was hot; he was cranky. Blasted how he wished he could just roll down the window and let some air in. Anything to drown out Ambro’s incessant recitation!
Rogêrio Royce had all the hallmarks of a successful pop singer: classic good looks, stupendous talent and a scrumptious artful physique. At thirty-two, his achievements included a Grammy, five gold and two platinum albums. And, as if not to be surpassed, his film career nearly eclipsed that of his music. A veteran of the silver screen, credits included three leading rolls in blockbusters and several critically acclaimed performances in independent films.
Hollywood standards gave license for him to behave the part of the blatantly fictitious asshole. Rogêrio would have none of that. Money was important only to the extent that it allowed him to do what he wanted. The plastic cordiality and transparent fraternization of those around him insulted his values; caustic idolism he called it. He even shunned riding in a limousine. Personal safety made it a necessity.
Though his life appeared full, within it seemed empty. He knew it shouldn’t. He had everything material and a strong belief in Spirituality. But regardless of what he bought or did, empty. Life just felt empty.
Most of his true friends had families: kids, wives, and dogs. They lived in quiet suburban houses with anonymous lives, went camping on the weekends, played bridge and coached AYSO® soccer. Like so many others, they shadowed invisible pains and celebrated their joys. Sure he could remember a time when he considered their lives mundane—trite, far too average for him. That was at the self-righteous, all knowing age of twenty-one. By thirty, having played on the beaches of Cabo Frío, attained the Forbes Who’s Who and accomplished all he set out to do and more, he had realized how little he actually knew and how the simple things make life worthwhile. Now he worried. At thirty-two, had he already experienced all the joys and discoveries his life would allow? Maybe he had. Maybe this was all there was.
“…and Alec Gross wants you over at Warner today to sign off on your new…Yo! Deio!” Ambro barked startling Rogêrio as he madly waved his hand before the singer’s face.
Annoyed, Rogêrio glared at his nemesis with disdain.
“Man, you haven’t heard a single word I’ve said!” Ambro exasperated.
Rogêrio just shrugged and continued looking out the window. His mind was elsewhere, probing, searching, and hoping. What was missing? What if anything could possibly be missing? He had hundreds of people in his life on a daily basis, so it couldn’t be loneliness, could it? Plastic people, pampered people, egocentrics and exhibitionists, yah, he had plenty of company; he just couldn’t stand any of them. The people he really cared about, those he called friends, he was lucky if he got to see them once a year.
Women were the worst, pawing, groping, and panning about him like vixens in heat. When he occasionally went out with one, he felt like tinsel on a tree or rather a trophy—some kind of prize. He was so disgusted with the entire ordeal, he’d sworn off dating for the past six months. Dating, not sex. Sex was easy to get, and once it was done he just wanted the woman gone. It was a quick fix. After the high wore off, he always felt a little worse than the time before, almost like each encounter stole a portion of his soul. There had to be more, somewhere. Turning to the droning Ambro, he could feel the melancholy of truth eclipsing his face.
“Ambro,” he charged. “Ever get lonely?”
“Yah, yah, yah…of course, so what?” Ambro stated.
“No, I mean really lonely, even in a crowd,” Rogêrio ventured, his voice fading into the leather.
Ambro looked at him, deduced the situation and groaned.
“Oh, man, not this again. What? You horny again? Listen, you’ve got a whole stable full of starry eyed, love sick bitches just begging to keep you…”
“Why,” Rogêrio emphasized. “Do you always assume I want to get laid!”
“You don’t?” Ambro questioned, surprised. Then shrugging added, “It always worked before.”
The singer sighed. Ambro was right. Sex did curb loneliness, for about an hour. And the supply was endless. The problem was he didn’t really want any of them. Star struck faceless money-grubbing sluts. They’d screw him because of who he’d become and what he could do for them, but didn’t give a damn about him. Not the real him. As soon as he fell, as soon as he wasn’t on top or at the first hint of trouble, their fickle superficial selves would emerge and he’d be left in the dust: women without substance. But didn’t someone once say you attract who you are?
Brooding, Rogêrio permitted himself to ferment, saturating his thoughts of disgust within his own bowl of self-pity. Finally he burst.
“So what if I want to get laid!” he screamed, pushing his fist into the door. Then he sat back for moment, reflected, and at last admitted the truth.
“I don’t want to get laid,” he conceded. “I don’t know what I want anymore. Maybe I need to fall in love…or something.”
Ambro busted forth in a deep belly laugh, slapping the singer’s leg as he spoke.
“Too much work!” he bellowed. “You’re just in love with the idea of being in love. You just don’t want to do the work it takes to be in love. Never have, never will!”
“Like you’re such an expert at it,” Rogêrio pouted indignantly.
Ambro didn’t even acknowledge with an answer. He was too busy laughing. Determined, Rogêrio pushed on.
“Go ahead,” he accosted, “laugh. But I do a damn good job playing ‘in-love’ with a script. How fucking hard can it be?”
Ambro tried to hold the laughter in, but he could feel it oozing out over his words.
“There is a BIG difference,” he gurgled, “between playing it and being it!”
Ambro wasn’t worried. Rogêrio seemed to go through these bouts of amoré urgency about every year or two. Lately though, they were becoming more frequent, annoyingly more frequent. Maybe it was time; after all, he was thirty-two. It was plausible. There were the logistics to consider, him being the highly recognizable, superstar that he is. A master opportunist, Ambro’s realized he might have just hit on the publicity mother load!
“This is good!” he began gleefully as he sorted through his thoughts. “This is very good! I can see the headlines now. ‘America’s most eligible bachelor is on the hunt for Mrs. Right.”
Ambro’s words fell on top of each other; his mouth couldn’t keep pace with his thoughts.
Reaching over to Rogêrio, he clasped the singer’s face between his hands and planted a great big wet one. Rogêrio recoiled, wiping the smack off his face in disgust.
“The publicity will be galvanic!” Ambro enthusiastically envisioned. “You’ll be the apotheosis of every single woman under the age of thirty! We’ll get tons of free press, pilferage of publicity. Rogêrio, you’re a genius, a…”
“Forget it!” Rogêrio grumbled with regret. “Money, money, money! Can I even entertain a serious idea without you attaching a fucking ROI to it?”
Disgusted, Rogêrio slumped into his corner of the coach, vacantly staring out the window. Traffic was creeping along with no end in sight. He hated traffic, and opted to pass the time counting blue hairs. They were like an infectious virus, everywhere, multiplying and invading Beverly Hills in their slow moving Mercedes and Jags. He had already counted six when the limo eased up on a little charcoal colored Escort.
Peeking inside, he diligently sought the occupant to add to his total. Instead, he found a young woman and she seemed to be crying! Fascinated, he watched her. Beautiful! Even with the mascara streaming down her face, he could see she was stunning. What could be so horrible to put such a lovely creature in such pain? As she turned her face toward him, he jumped back from the window. For a moment he thought he’d been caught, and then he remembered: one-way glass. Returning to the glass, he pressed his forehead against the window, studying her in earnest.
Deep sable hair cascaded down her back, framing her face with small wisps that tickled her cheeks. Her features were well defined: high cheek bones, smug nose and a slightly rounded chin. He couldn’t tell the color of her eyes, only that they were big and neatly set apart. Judging by the length of her arm, he figured she must be tall—at least five eight. Attempting to get closer, he squirmed in his chair. If only he could see what she was…?
Bam! The limo lurched forward knocking his head into the frame.
“Billy!” Rogêrio shouted to the driver, rubbing the fresh bump festering on his head.
“Sir?” the driver cautiously answered. “Sorry, sir.”
“Slow down!” the singer growled. The bump was really starting to smart.
“Can’t go no slower than a near dead stop, Mr. Royce.”
The Escort was stuck behind a group of cars overflowing from the Rodeo Drive left turn lane onto Wilshire. As the limo dutifully crept with the traffic, Rogêrio watched helplessly; she was falling further and further back. For the first time in his life, he found himself praying for a red light, a train, an ambulance…anything to pause his progress until she could again catch up.
Red light, his prayers were answered. Presently a break came in the center lane, and she was again on the move. He watched as she whipped the car around and again, pulled nearly along side. Still, the traffic was not fully cooperating. She began to slip back again as Billy began to move forward. Panicked, Rogêrio again shouted at the driver.
“Slow down, Billy!” he begged exasperated. “Can’t you pace next to that little gray Escort?”
“I can try, sir. But I don’t think them people behind us is gonna like that.”
“Who cares!” the singer whispered under his breath. This really wasn’t working the way he wanted it to. He had to get another look at her. As if reading his thoughts, her lane again began to move.
“Wait, here she comes again,” he gasped with relief.
She was along side again, captive by yet another red light, and this time he could see everything she was doing. Mesmerized, he watched as she twisted the chain around her neck, tighter and tighter until…
“Oh! She broke it!” he cried.
“Who broke what?” Ambro asked, curious about the singer's sudden enthusiasm.
“What are you looking at?”
Ambro slid next to the window for a better view.
“Pretty,” he stated flatly.
The singer didn’t seem to hear. Rolling the documents in his hands, Ambro reach over and playfully clobbered his ward on the head.
“Rogêrio, stop drooling,” he jested. “You’re like a dog in heat!”
Ignoring his manager, Rogêrio waved him away.
“We really need to go over these demos,” Ambro pleaded, “before we get to Warner.”
Oblivious, Rogêrio fixated on the scene outside his window.
God! I can’t believe it,” he whispered in amazement hitting the headrest on Ambro’s seat. “Did you see that? She gave that chain to the bum.”
“Bet her beau gave it to her and he just left her,” Ambro summarized. “My ex did the same damn thing with her wedding band, as she was telling me she wanted a divorce.”
Green light. The Escort pulled off.
“No! Billy, you’re losing her again!” Rogêrio screamed as he crawled over the barrier and fell headfirst into the front seat. In dismay, he watched as she eased into the left lane and followed it onto Crescent. Frustrated, he slammed his palm into the dashboard.
“Damn! We lost her,” he snarled.
“Not really,” Billy smugly replied. “I got her license plate.”
“What good is that going to do me?” Rogêrio pouted.
“My brother works at the DMV,” Billy replied. “And, my cousin works for Social Security. You want info? The license plate is all we need.”
Smiling, Rogêrio leaned back, his mind fixating on the woman in the Escort. All this was crazy. He knew it. Call it fate. Call it lust at first sight, but something just told him he had to meet that girl.
At eight-o-one in the morning, Billy was on the phone with his brother. By eight-o-five, he had her name. A quick call to his cousin and he also acquired her employer.
“Her name is Leslie René Alexander,” he bellowed proudly, waving the paper inscribed with her details before the singer’s face.
“Give me that!” Rogêrio snapped.
“Not so fast,” Billy teased, pulling the paper just out of his reach as he strutted about the room. “Let’s see. She’s twenty-eight, five-foot eight…Tall Girl!” he interjected
“I knew it!” Rogêrio beamed, congratulating himself on his keen detective work.
“Hum,” Ambro continued. “Miss Alexander’s one hundred and thirty-five pounds. Good, good, not too fat and no rail. Wears contacts, has dark blue eyes. She’s an organ donor…girl’s got a conscience,” Ambro volunteered.
“Pardon me,” Billy insisted. “I’m not done yet.”
“Well, go on, go on!” Rogêrio pleaded. “So where does she work?”
“KNWS News Radio, in sales,” he revealed, pausing for a moment to double-check the next bit of information. “And, she lives at 2320 Melrose Place, unit 2.”
“Sure she does,” Rogêrio responded sarcastically. “Like there really is a Melrose Place.”
“According to the DMV there is,” the chauffeur validated.
“Let me guess. She grew up in Savannah and began her life at the police academy,” Ambro jested.
“Cute,” Rogêrio satirized.
Ambro, turning to the singer summed up the situation. “So, now that you’ve got the information, what are you going to do with it?”
Rogêrio shook his head. He’d think of something.
_______________________
Lounging in her chair, Leslie blew a stubborn bang away from her face. The day had been interminable. Clients were screaming at her for this, the boss was all over her about her numbers, and the station’s ad inventory was sold out for the next thirty days. On top of it all, she still felt remorse for her decision to ditch Steve. She knew it would be at least ten days before he even got a hint something was up. His calls were so sporadic, but he would eventually call. This she knew. He’d call when it was convenient, when he wanted something or needed something she had. Only this time, she would not return it. This time, he could feel what it was like to wait, to wonder, to be ignored and to be discarded. He deserved it; in fact, she wished he’d call right now. She’d leave him dangling in voice mail hell.
Feeling righteous, she brought up his contact information on her computer. There it sat, Agênçia de Angeles, Steven Kenneth Edward, Managing Partner. Staring at the information before her, she could feel her bravado fading.
“No, no!” Leslie rebelled. For a moment she feared the finality of her actions. Then she remembered the countless times he had humiliated her. She had to do this.
“If he’s in my database,” she thought. “He exists. If he’s not, he doesn’t.”
Moving the mouse, she maneuvered the pointer to the edit file.
“Delete contact,” she whispered with conviction.
The warning system popped up, asking her if she really wanted to delete the contact. Two clicks on yes, and Steve’s memory landed in the trash file. One final click on the empty trash icon and all records of him were permanently destroyed. If only she could point and click him out of her own memory. Bill Gates hadn’t thought of that.
Glancing up from her computer, she noticed a picture of him still on her desk. That would never do. Snatching it, she quickly ripped the picture out, tearing it into confetti and replaced it with one of her two cats.
Now, what to do about her numbers?
“Leslie Alexander,” came a voice over the intercom. “You have a guest in the lobby.”
“Now what?” Leslie mumbled.
Glancing at the clock, she noticed it was almost noon. Had she forgotten a lunch date? No, it was probably just a delivery person with one of her client’s commercial carts. Such a hassle, she really wasn’t in the mood.
Saving the document she’d been working on, she grabbed her cup of coffee and headed toward the lobby. As she rounded the corner, she stopped. Shocked and amused, she stared at the sight before her. Dressed in chartreuse tails and a top hat, a small man stood brandishing a bouquet of daisies. Bowing to her with the elegance of an aristocrat, he spoke.
“Miss Alexander?” he queried, handing her the daisies.
She nodded, stunned. There was no way this was from Steve!
“This is for you,” the little man continued.
Pulling out a harmonica, he sounded a low B flat.
“You might think I’m crazy,” the man in tails began to sing.
“Or certifiably insane
When I saw you yesterday
I just had to know your name
So captivated I was by your generosity
And moved by your tears
Dear lady of Wilshire
This is no time for fear
Please accept my request
It is as simple as it is sincere”
As the man finished his song, he spun around on his heels, bowed and handed her a card. Blushing, Leslie reached for it as a round of applause erupted behind her. Nervously, she opened the envelope. Inside, the hand written note read:
Leslie-
Please join me for dinner at The Ivy in Beverly Hills,
7:30PM tonight
I’ll leave your name at the door
Leslie, thank you in advance,
Your Fan
Flattered and confused, Leslie looked at the messenger. How should she answer? Dare she answer? The little man began fidgeting, clearing his voice to get her attention. Startled she looked up.
“Miss Alexander,” he asked. “Will there be an answer?”
Tucking the card in her pocket, she nodded.
“Who sent this?” she asked. “There is no name.”
The messenger shrugged. Leslie handed him a tip and confirmed she’d meet this mystery man.
Dodging her coworker’s curiosities, Leslie rushed to the refuge of her desk. Questions plagued her, like who was this guy? Chewing on the end of her pencil, she replayed yesterday. The song mentioned Wilshire and that she was crying. It must have been on her way home from work.
Frantically, she reviewed her drive home and those in the cars around her, but all she could remember was a bunch of blue hairs. Oh God! What if he was a male blue hair, some dirty old man?
Panic set in. Maybe she was being set up to be kidnapped, sold into white slavery, or something. But she didn’t recall a pimp mobiles or Russian gangster types in the group. What a relief; she could eliminate the white-slavery abduction possibility! After several minutes of pondering, she finally gave up. It would be seven-thirty soon enough.
_______________________
Rogêrio sat nervously drumming his fingers at a small corner table. He had arrived a full half-hour early and was attempting to take the edge off of his ever-increasing anxiety complex with a stiff Rusty Nail. The drink seemed to be working. Through his veins, the soothing warmth melts his tension away. Finishing the first, he asked the server for a second. Looking at his watch…had it only been ten minutes? He felt so conspicuous sitting by himself, and decided to study the room.
For a Thursday night, the restaurant was busy. The powerhouses of Los Angeles were well represented. He recognized several people at surrounding tables and suddenly felt like a cameo in the movie, The Player. Chuckling to himself, he marveled at the game. It was all so LA. Hopefully, Leslie wouldn’t consider the place outré. Then he saw her.
She drifted into the room wearing a little turquoise dress that came clear up to her neck. It was long sleeved, but the shoulders were cut out and it hugged her curves ending just above the knee. Affixed to her neck, a stunning gold and sapphire broach. Save for matching earrings, this was the only jewelry she wore. Her mere presence commanded the room. Devastatingly classy, daringly sexy, Rogêrio took a double take and slammed down the rest of his drink.
As she traversed the room, every head turned to follow her. However, Rogêrio noticed, she seemed oblivious. He could hear the rumor mill churning, spitting out speculation and inundating with supposition. Unaware of the commotion she was causing or how it would escalate the moment she sat down, Leslie at last arrived at his table.
Rogêrio stood, pulled out her chair and extended his hand in introduction.
“Leslie?”
She nodded shyly. Inside, she heaved a sigh of relief. Not only was this mystery guy handsome beyond belief, but he had manners too!
“Hi,” he started nervously. “I’m Rogêrio…”
Pausing for a moment, he decided it was best to use his real name, not his stage.
“I’m Rogêrio Novias, but please call me Deio. Thank you for meeting me.”
Leslie was still afraid to speak. Smiling sweetly, she met his hand with hers, and shaking it, introduced herself.
“Leslie Alexander. Thank you for inviting me.”
The queen of small talk, she suddenly found herself speechless. Looking for a way out, she fixated upon his name.
“Novias, is that Spanish?” she asked.
“No,” Deio began. “It’s Brazilian, although my Great, Great, Great Grandfather was from Spain, so maybe it is.”
Over the next several minutes, they explored each other’s dossiers, finding much in common and little of contention. But Leslie couldn’t stop staring at him. There was something familiar about him. She just couldn’t quite place it. Finally, her curiosity slipped out.
“Have we,” she began tentatively. “Ever met before? I mean, did you go to Billings High School in Portland or maybe I know you from the U of M?”
“No,” he laughed. “I grew up on the East Coast.”
He found it refreshing that she didn’t know who he was. All he told her was that he worked in the music business with performers. Still, she was ready to give up on the familiarity issue.
“Are you sure we’ve never met?” she further probed. “You look so familiar!”
“I’m positive,” he stated. “It’s that whole Hollywood thing—everyone looks like someone.”
The remark sufficed.
Time passed quickly as the two shared stories, hopes and dreams. The more Deio learned of her, the more enchanted he became until finally the dessert was over, the cappuccinos consumed and all that was left was to pay the bill. He wanted to see more of her, a lot more. Motioning the server, he turned to Leslie.
“Are you available this weekend?” he nervously asked.
Leslie paused for a moment. Yes, of course she was free for the weekend, but did he mean the whole weekend, or just a day on the weekend. Then again, The Rules did say she should put three days between the first date and the next time she saw him. The rules, the blasted rules, who decided the stupid rules anyway? The rules sucked! Then again, maybe there was some omnipresent reason; some idiosyncrasy imbedded in the cosmos for their existence that she had yet to discover. And what if he got the wrong idea about her, maybe thinking she was easy or something. What was right? What was acceptable? Should she or shouldn’t she? She really wanted to see more of him, immerse herself in him, but…
“Oh,” she quietly averted. “This weekend I’ve got plans.”
Ouch! That hurt.
She really didn’t want to lie to him, but heaven forbid she appear too available. Anxiously, she held her breath and waited for his reply. Would he play her, act nonchalant and blow her off, or…
Oh God, no! The puppy dog face, drooping eyes, pouting lips and all. Anything but the puppy face! Her testosterone immunity could withstand anything, anything but the puppy pout. Three seconds of soulful eyes and her resolve abdicated. Thinking quickly she added, “But, I’ve got a three day weekend next week.”
Sidebar on her thoughts, Leslie made a mental note to ask for Friday off if he took the bait.
Deio immediately brightened up. Three days? Endless possibilities!
“Great!” he exclaimed with relief sprinkled through his voice. “How would you like to escape to Lake Wenatchee?” (pronounced: win-at-chee)
“Lake what?” she giggled. “I’ve never even heard of it, let alone be able to pronounce it!”
“It’s up in the Cascades in Washington State,” he began to explain. “There’s this little inn at the West End of the lake, very romantic and very private. I’ve been looking for a reason to get up there again…”
She was eyeing him suspiciously; so he decided he better make an offer.
“We can have separate bungalows…if you like,” he added shyly.
“I would,” she giggled. Her friends were never going to believe this one!
Navigating the following week proved challenging. All she could think about was the following weekend, her first weekend. Her first weekend on a vacation away with a man; her first weekend in Washington and her first weekend with a man so incredible, perfect was the only word to describe him.
Between calls, her thoughts turn to him. At the grocery store, in the bank, even at the dry cleaners. Deio, darling adorable, fascinatingly delicious Deio, she could picture the two of them holding hands, taking in the sights, hiking together, talking, laughing and sharing small details about their lives. How she longed for such intimacy. That feeling of being part of a couple, a team, and the satisfaction that set in when both people felt comfortable enough about each other to share opinions, love and even fight without fearing losing each other. Leslie had never had that, but she knew it was what she wanted. True, one weekend could never deliver such intimacy, but it was a terrific start. It would be a weekend, a time and the beginning of their first shared memories.
Though very excited caution tempered her enthusiasm, ever vigilant to an unspoken fear, afraid he might change his mind, come up with some excuse and cancel. So many times, it had happened before. So many times a man had said he would do this with her, only to back out at the last minute. She was afraid to hope, lest she be disappointed again. Leslie wasn’t sure should could handle that. Not again, not this time.
“Please,” she silently prayed. “Please, just this once God, let me have this.”
Each day that passed, she allowed herself a twinge more anticipation. Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, after what seemed like an eternity, Friday finally arrived. Leslie had been nearly packed for a week, but she waited until Thursday to buy new clothes for the occasion—right down to the sheer silk pajamas she planned on wearing if she decided to share a bed with him. She hadn’t decided that yet.
Lifting off from Burbank, the ride to Eastern Washington took a little over seven hours in the small twin engine Cessna. By the time the couple reached the Inn, the sun was disappearing over the western ridge.
Known as one of the more beautiful areas of the United States, Lake Wenatchee sparkled, cradled in a valley peppered with evergreens and deciduous trees. The Inn perched at the end of the lake, hidden in the trees and nearly invisible from the road. All around, the arduous mountains offered seclusion. Leslie stepped out of the car, basking in her new surroundings. Magnified by the setting sun and a faint mist collecting over the lake, the place took on an ethereal quality, not unlike that which she had read about in fairy tales. Pivoting slowly, she happened upon the stray remnants of sunshine as the tickled the cliff above her. Millions of quartz crystals dazzled in the rays, sparkling like the lights of the city when viewed from high in the Hollywood Hills. But the glamour and pampered lifestyle would not be found in their origin. It was a rugged atmosphere, one befitting the Marlboro Man and not some high brow Angelino accustom to valet parking and sushi bars. Yet, Leslie marveled appreciatively, Deio seemed at home here.
Glancing once more at the lake, Leslie inhaled the crisp air. She could almost taste the Douglas fir and maple laced in the breeze. It was a welcomed regression to her days as a child. A quiet smile tiptoed across her face. The setting couldn’t be more perfect.
The couple checked in to separate bungalows, he in two and she in three. After a few minutes to freshen up, they planned to meet in the bar. Leslie quickly unpacked, locked up her bungalow and pinched herself. She still couldn’t believe she was here.
Tracing the tongue and groove black walnut paneling with a careless hand, Leslie entered. The lounge was quaint with windows on two sides opening to the lake. On the walls, a multiple of vintage photographs captured the rugged logging tradition of the late nineteenth century Cascades. Several couples adorn the room, some dancing, others speaking. From the deck, she could hear the high sweet sounds of a sax and accompanying strings. Deio seemed not to have arrived.
Deciding to wait at the bar, she began contemplating possible drinks. Vodka-Cranberry? Cosmopolitan? No, something more exotic.
A sharp high-pitched whistle interrupted her decision. Glancing above, she noticed a large ‘H’ scale model train negotiating the eves as it circled the perimeters of the room. It even had smoke emanating from its stack! Mesmerized, she watched it for several minutes, imagining herself on a long trip bound for somewhere, anywhere, to points unknown…winding through the Alps on a crisp clear morning…
“May I get you a drink, Ma’am?” the bartender cut in.
Startled, Leslie looked up and said the first thing that came to her mind.
“Key lime martini,” she stated, “and it is Miss,” she corrected, twisting her left hand in the air before him as she demonstrated her naked ring finger. “Ma’am is for married women and those over fifty,” she jested.
“I stand corrected,” he flirted. “Besides, you don’t look a day over twenty-two.”
Leslie blushed thinking to herself, “Okay, he had earned a good tip.”
“Can you squeeze a wedge of lemon in it?” she added as he began to mix her drink.
The bartender nodded, disappeared for a moment and returned with one of the largest martini glasses she had seen, filled to the brim with its pink sweet-tart concoction.
“Should I charge it to your room?” he asked.
“Yes,” she commented, signing the check. “Bungalow three.”
Picking up her drink, Leslie crossed the bar and exited through the sliding glass door. On the deck, more couples but still no Deio. Zigzagging through the dancers, she reached the rail. In the darkness, everything seemed more intense.
Before her the lake shimmered. Its color a deep cobalt blue, rippled softly under the starlight. She paused, leaning on the rail a moment, letting the warm breeze coming off the lake tousle her hair as its earthy scent mixed with aroma of the hotels grill. The air was intoxicating, the moment magical. She watched intently, tracing the path of the crescent moon on the water with her eyes. It was as if this place alleviated her inhibitions and opened up her heart to an expanse of possibilities. Invigorated, her eyes returned to the deck. Relaxing at a corner, she finally found him. A smile of relief swept her face as she hurried over to meet him.
“I like this place Deio,” she began. “What’s it called?”
“The Cougar Inn,” he replied. “A friend of mine was up here shooting a movie and told me about it. Now whenever any of us wants to get away, we come here.”
“It’s enchanting,” she whispered.
“So what made you decide to meet me?” he asked, changing the subject.
“I don’t know,” she replied nervously, “maybe the adventure of it? I love spontaneity and I’m a hopeless romantic. You see, I just broke up with, well, at least I think I just ended a relationship.”
Deio looked at her puzzled. Was this girl using him to get back at some guy? Shifting in his chair, he crossed his arms. Maybe the weekend was a bad idea.
“Well,” he interrogated. “You either broke up or you didn’t. Which is it?”
“I did,” she answered, though she was still not quite sure of her conviction. “Do you have any matches?”
“I’ll get some,” he answered annoyed. He wasn’t sure why she needed them, but escaping inside would give him the chance to think. He hated women on the rebound. He hated being used. Snatching the matches from the bar, he begrudgingly headed back to the table. As he approached, he caught her looking through her purse.
“Here are your matches,” he stated, handing them to her.
Leslie thanked him and pulled something out of her purse.
“And here are his pictures,” she commented, rolling them up like a cigarette.
Dangling the Kodak moments from her mouth, she giggled in a Lana Turner drawl, “Darling,” she purred. “Will you light me?”
Shaking his head in amusement, Deio lit the match and the end of memories. She watched it, the photographic paper sputtered, transforming from color to ashen gray. As the flame grew, she withdrew it from her mouth and set it in the ashtray to burn. The coated paper burst alive, flavoring the flames in a prism of color as it greedily consumed the last endearing record of her shattered relationship. Moments later, it flickered out.
There,” she stated with conviction. “Now it’s over. You need not concern yourself with him Deio. He and his memory have been cremated.”
“Remind me to never become an ex,” Deio laughed, tossing the ashes over the rail.
An uncomfortable silence shrouded the table. Leslie, feeling embarrassed, toyed with the salt shaker, distracting herself from his penetrating gaze. However, he was no longer suspicious, only enchanted. Rocking back in his chair, he memorized her face; she looked so innocent, so vulnerable. The moonlight enhanced her features, adding a taste of intrigue. She seemed softer, more delicate. As he wondered what she might be thinking, the band started its second set.
Extending his hand to her, he asked her to dance.
They glided together on the deck. A perfect match, she followed his lead in tandem, effortlessly, like she was akin to his thoughts. She could feel his strong body, every movement, every twitch. Closing her eyes, Leslie breathed him into her being. She felt so safe, so wonderfully safe, nurtured in his arms. As the song ended, she opened her eyes. He was staring straight into them. She felt he was looking into her soul, and that frightened her. But she couldn’t stop looking at him either. The energy they exchanged was undeniable.
She felt his arm, drop to her waist, capture it and draw her onto him. Anticipation, coupled with fear seemed to tingle in her veins. Watching his eyes, deep, soft eyes, she saw them close and…
Their mouths met, fusing their bodies together as Deio delivered a deep whole kiss. Leslie felt her legs quiver under its intensity as her body succumbs to his sexual electricity. She felt drunk with emotion, awash with sensation. So long, it had been so long since a kiss had done so much. It seemed to last for hours, stopping time and transporting her to... She was afraid to open her eyes. With her hands, she clutched at his chest. He was real. This was really happening. The reassurance was enough for her to venture opening her eyes.
Their lips parted. Visibly shaken, she needed to regroup. Excusing herself, she sought refuge in the ladies room.
Safe inside, she greeted her reflection in the small vanity mirror. She was flush, light headed and she knew it would take every ounce of willpower to resist him tonight. Somehow she must. Splashing cold water on her face, she patted it dry, being careful not to disturb her make-up. With one last look in the mirror, she took a deep breath.
“I can do this,” she encouraged herself, though she still wasn’t sure she believed it.
For Deio, her quick trip to the bathroom gave him time to reflect; on his shirt, the lingering aura of rose and spice. The perfume, an affable reminder even for the few minutes she was away. How incredible she was, yet the feelings she was stirring within him both excited him and caused him fear. Could he be falling for her? No, it was much too soon! Still, he couldn’t wait for her to return. Three sips of his drink and he could see her returning through the bar. She paused briefly to speak with the band.
“What was that all about?” he asked upon her return.
“I asked them to play a song,” she replied off handedly.
But there was nothing off handed about her request. The song held a special meaning to her and she only danced it with man she was in love with, never anyone else. Its melody was more sacred to her than sex, and held even more meaning. She hoped she wasn’t premature, especially after only knowing Deio for a week; the kiss had convinced her that she was indeed, falling in love. In her life, she had only danced to the song with one other man, her former fiancé. Until she met Deio, she thought she’d never dance to it again.
“So,” he questioned curiously. “What did you ask them to play?”
Leslie looked at him and she could feel the blush taking over her face.
“Unchained Melody,” she whispered.
“Oh, my love,” Deio began to sing. “My darling, I hunger for your touch…God, I love that song! Righteous Brothers, right?”
“Gotta love the classics,” Leslie cooed. She’d just die if he knew how much the song or his dancing with her to it really meant to her.