Blaze

by Priscilla West

  “But I’ve still got the big finale,” he responds, pushes his hips against me, his obvious erection rubbing against my leg.

  “Honey, trust me. That dance is over,” I give a snide head shake as I say it.

  “Better keep my day job?” He asks sheepishly.

  “Yes. In fact, get a second one.” I kiss him again, my hand running over the top of his bulge. I love the flirty, playful moments we have. We definitely haven’t experienced enough of those.

  Planting small kisses I reach down to undo his belt and realize I should have let him get that far before stopping him. I yank and turn the leather until he reaches down to help me. I slap his hands and he pulls back with a surprised smile.

  “I thought you said I was in charge.”

  He nods and lays back, chuckling as I fondle his buckle way too long before finally coaxing it into opening up. Crouching between his legs I run my finger down his zipper, feeling him move and jump under my teasing touch. Locating the tab I hold it up and lean over to grab it in my teeth. I’ve never done anything like this before and I’m really nervous it will just look stupid or chip an incisor but I give it a try. It slides down nicely, a little jerky at spots but mostly in a fluid motion the way I imagined in my head.

  “Oh my god, that was hot,” Mark says, his jaws clamped in arousal. “I’m not going to last much longer if you keep that up.”

  “Better think other thoughts, big guy, because if you come before I go you’ll be the one getting the spanking today,” I remark sternly.

  “Mmmmm, that sounds lovely,” he says. His lifts his hips so I can pull his pants and briefs all the way off and I see his urgent need, present and ready. I take him in my mouth, just the tip at first, then more of him as my hands go to work enlivening and enjoying him. I love everything about this man – his smell, his taste, the way I feel him grow when he’s inside my body.

  “Seriously, I’m going to—” he starts to say.

  “Shhhh,” I soothe. Standing just long enough to strip myself I return and straddle him placing my body directly over his engorged cock. I put him just in my opening, letting him feel my wetness and desire. He attempts to thrust into me but I keep my hand steady and allow only the smallest access.

  A tense smile crosses his face and I wonder if he’s worried I’m just going to tease him and leave him, but he should know better than that. We are both way too far along to walk away from this now.

  “How bad do you want it?” I say, inserting him just a little more. I can see he’s at the cross-section of pleasure and pain. It’s something I understand all too well. He taught it to me.

  “I want it,” he whispers, barely able to talk, the huskiness of his voice driving me even farther into lust. The he speaks clearly, never breaking eye contact. “I want you.”

  Lowering my body on his shaft, I melt around him as he fills me in a way no one else has ever or will ever. I move my body up and down, feeling every luscious movement press against my channel and entice my escalating climax. Over and over I lift myself slightly rotating my hips and plunging myself down. I love the ability to look down and see his face, eyes closed – pleasure obvious. My vision grows dim as the knot inside me tightens, ready to squeeze out all sensations but my anticipated spasming pleasure. My thighs burn with the upward thrusts. Breathless and struggling to maintain the pace to keep climbing, I feel myself starting to slow down.

  Mark reaches out, holding my hips in his big strong hands, stopping my motion to give my worn out legs a rest, and pushes himself upward into me, pounding me through his own effort, hitting the right spot time after time, lifting me high and higher until he gives one big hard thrust and I grip his member as my entire body rattles and flows with passion. A guttural cry springs forth from my lips loud enough to shatter glass and my entire being releases energy as I tremble on his cock, collapsing on that beautiful chest when I’m done.

  He wraps his arms around me, holding me close to him as we breathe together – the quiet rhythmic afterglow of satisfied souls. I nearly fall asleep in the warmth and security of the moment.

  Then, from nowhere, the thought comes back.

  “Did he hold Valerie like this?” My eyes pop open and I sigh. I love him, but I can’t get over the fact I am just a second string on a lovely violin.

  Rising, I reach for my clothes and he can tell something isn’t right.

  “I need to go,” I say revealing more sadness than I wanted my voice to display.

  “I wish you’d stay. We need to make a plan.”

  “You need a plan, or whatever you need,” I surrender. “I need to go. I‒ I need time, Mark. I know you and Valerie are done, but I’m not sure how to feel about it. I just need more time.”

  “We don’t have time, Julia,” he rises and dresses quickly, his buttonless shirt hanging open. “We can put off the relationship part for a while, but we have less than a week before filing and we are going to have to pull together to get the evidence we need.”

  “It’s too much. It’s just too much. I don’t have a life made of parts. I just have one big lump of love-life-Lynx and it’s all too much for me to carry.”

  “It’s also too much for you to lose,” he reminds quietly. I want to scream that I know that already, but I just nod. The anger and passion of the day have worn me through. I’m exhausted.

  He walks me to the elevator and we wait wordless. When the door opens I step inside, leaving him in the hallway alone.

  “Don’t call, don’t text, don’t write. If the deadline passes, it passes. But for now, just give me space.”

  The door closes before he can say anything. It’s better that way.

  Chapter 3

  Are you being irrational if you know you’re being irrational? I pull out of the parking lot. I know there is nothing between Mark and Valerie now, and yet I still can’t get the idea of them out of my head. How can I ever trust that he isn’t selling me out to her? I guess letting the transfer go through and giving up Lynx would reveal the truth. If he doesn’t want me after that, I’ll know it was all a lie. Am I willing to give up my life’s work just to find out?

  I decide to stop by the hospital for my daily visit with Dad. It will take my mind off all this for a little while. He seems to be past waking so every day is another chance for me to hold his hand once more. How I wish he was still well. I know he could have guided me through this with his wisdom. Dad negotiated his way through situations with social skill as sharp and accurate as a surgeon’s blade. I’ve been hacking my way through this with a machete, and the scars are starting to show.

  Walking down the hallway, getting adjusted to the antiseptic smell of the area, I notice the nurse practically jumping across the desk when she sees me She walks quickly to try to catch me as I turn the corner. I beat her to the room and look in to discover Dad’s bed is raised, made and empty.

  “Where’s my father?” I demand. She sees the blaze that’s been simmering behind my eyes all morning.

  “I tried to catch you, I was waiting to call you until he got settled,” the nurse said, guiding me away from the empty room.

  “Settled? Settled where? He’s not conscious, how hard could it possibly be to get him settled?” The nurse takes me to a waiting area and sits down with me.

  “Your father has been moved to the hospice wing,” she says softly, watching my face and trying to gauge a response. “His oxygen saturation is dropping and they’ve put him on a morphine pump. It’s only a matter of hours now.”

  “If he’s going to die in a few hours, why didn’t you just leave him where he was? Why did you have to jerk him around? Why is there always someone in our lives all the time jerking us around?” That last question made her frown a bit.

  “No one is jerking anyone around. The hospice wing is more comfortable for him and for you. The monitors are kept in a separate room so you don’t have to deal with the beeping, and it’s a more comfortable environment for goodbyes. And, Miss Sharp, this is a time for goodbye
.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I‒it’s just—”

  “I understand,” she replies kindly. “He’s on the 3rd floor in room 312. I’ll walk you there if you want.”

  “No, no I can get there. Thank you for all your help. I know you did the best that you could for him. This has been such a long process.” I stand to leave, giving a big sigh to push out all the tension and try to gather some kind of strength to walk down the hall.

  “I find it’s easier for folks to let go of this world if the people they love will tell them it is okay,” she mentions helpfully. I nod. Poor Dad. Since the day of his diagnosis I’ve been dragging him to specialists, forcing him to try experimental treatment, and keeping him alive by my own force of will. The voice of Mark, which seems to have taken up residence in my head, reminds me that sometimes strength isn’t holding on, but letting go.

  I make my way to Dad’s new room and walk in tentatively. It is a much homier and calmer set up than the rest of the hospital. The room smells like baked apples, instead of Lysol, and there are no ticks and beeps emanating from everything. The lights are dim and the glow of the numbers on the morphine pump are the only thing that would tell you something other than a nap was going on. It gives me peace to see him so comfortable.

  I pull up a chair beside Dad and take his hand. I look at the withered fingers that always seemed so firm and strong, now tapered, weak and textured like rice paper. I kiss his cheek and there is no response. His breathing is shallow, and his eyes don’t move.

  “Dad,” I say loudly hoping either he or his soul can hear me through the medicated fog. “Dad, I love you and I miss you, already, so much. But I want you to know some things. I want you to know I’m okay. I’m strong and I’ve been through hell, but I am going to be fine.”

  Tears fall down my cheeks as I chokingly open myself to him one last time.

  “I’ve meet someone, Daddy. The man I told you about before. He’s taught me a lot of amazing things and I’m finally getting my feet on the ground. I know who I am, and I know what to do. I’m going to do some great things in this world, because I’m your daughter and I can handle whatever life gives me. So I want you to know that it’s okay. It’s okay to let go. It’s okay to rest in peace because all the work there was for you is done here. You’ll always be alive in me, and I will always love you. But it’s time, and it’s alright, for you to let me go.”

  I put my head down on the bed, allowing the tears to flow over me. His steady breathing never changes but I feel something different in his touch. It’s colder, it’s lighter. Closing my eyes I listen to the air puff through his lips. I remember the many jokes he told and wise things he told me. I remember how terrible he was with tools and everything he ever tried to build turned out lopsided. Mom would laugh at him, but he thought it was good fun. One awkward adolescent day I told him I felt lopsided too. He said I was perfect.

  They were wrong. When someone who you love dies, their life doesn’t pass before their eyes. It passes before yours. I remembered every birthday, every car trip that ended in ice-cream, every school competition and every issue of Lynx written and how he was there, beaming and celebrating with me. He even bought three subscriptions to Lynx so he could give two away to assorted friends each month.

  “It’s not bragging if you’re giving them something,” he would say, stuffing the magazine in someone’s hand or mailbox. I watch the years of my life with Dad march by until I am simply carried away in memories.

  “Miss Sharp,” a clear voice says right near my ear. I jolt my head up and realize I’ve been asleep for who knows how long. I turn to see my father lying still, his breathing stopped.

  “I fell asleep,” I stammer at the woman. “I was holding his hand and I just put my head down for a moment.”

  “You’ve been asleep a few hours, Miss Sharp, and your father has slept away.”

  “He’s gone?” I look again and allow myself to grasp the truth. This amazing being who only wanted to love me and be loved by me has left this world in my hands.

  The hospice nurse gives me time for a final goodbye and then walks with me into a private area. She opens the DNR and packet we filled out together when Dad was still functioning pretty well. The funeral home and all the plans are inside. She asks me if there is any family I would like her to call. I tell her he was all I had in terms of family except for some distant aunts I would call later.

  “Is there someone who can pick you up or drive you home?” She asks.

  “I can drive,” I say wiping another tear from my eye. “I can’t believe I slept while he died.”

  “That was a mercy to you both,” the nurse replies knowingly. “He probably was waiting for you to fall asleep or leave the room or something. He didn’t want to leave in front of you. He loved you.”

  “I love him,” I answer. “And there is no need to call, or worry. I’ve been alone for a long time now and I have some supportive folks who will help me with these arrangements. Dad wanted to be cremated and have his ashes poured in the ocean off Grand Island. He proposed to my mother there.”

  She helps me sign the proper forms and walks me to the door of the hospital as if I were the patient. I can see she’s worried about letting me go off into the world alone. But alone I am and alone I will stay.

  I grab something to eat and make it home in one piece, getting ready to go about the business of death. Since there is no body or family involved, the funeral home offers me a time the day after tomorrow and I take it. I’ll make sure it’s in the paper in the morning and call everyone who needs to spread the word. When mom died, Dad and Aunt Sonja took care of all this stuff, so I’m not really practiced at arranging things. Janice usually makes my appointments and she’ll know who to call in the journalism world to get the notice out.

  “Janice,” I say into the phone with a quivering voice. This will be the first time I’ve said these words out loud. “My father passed away this afternoon.”

  “Oh, Julia, I’m so sorry,” she says with genuine love. “Sweetie, I’m sure it was his time. How are you? Are you okay?”

  “Pretty much. I’m doing arrangements. He’s being cremated but there will be a memorial day after tomorrow at Greenfield’s chapel. Can you help me make some calls?”

  “I can try. I’m in Missouri, but let me talk to Reggie and we can get the first flight back to New York.”

  “No, Janice, don’t come back. I didn’t realize you weren’t here. I can handle it,” I try to reassure her when in truth we both know I can barely make dinner reservations without some disaster occurring.

  “I had the week off from Lynx so we decided to take a trip. I don’t have a problem returning,” she offers.

  “No, no, no,” I insist. “When the cremation part is done I’ll need you to come with me to release his ashes. That’s more important than now. Stay where you are.”

  “What about Mark? Can he help you?”

  “Um‒ yeah‒ he can,” I mumble, too tired and confused to deal with telling her the complicated saga of my love.

  “Are you sure?” She doesn’t buy it.

  “Yes, I’m not really used to having to lean on people so it’s hard but I know he will come through. I’ll see you when you return. Give Reggie my love,” I hang up before I break down completely.

  Should I call Mark? Yes. Am I going to? No way in hell.

  The next day is a flurry of necessary activity, phone calls and condolences. I end up putting the phone on silent and listening to it once every few hours to keep the voice mail from filling. One of the messages is from Mark.

  “Hi Julia, it’s Mark. Janice called the office and told me about your father. I am so sorry for his passing. I know this is a very hard time for you. If you need anything, ask me. I am here for you.”

  His earnest voice, deep and sure, brings a fresh round of tears to my already swollen eyes. I want to call. I want to run to him, jump in those strong arms and let him carry through this entire ordeal. But, I do
n’t. Something inside, some deep fear of loss or betrayal, resists all evidence that this kind of relationship can really exist and be true to form.

  Greenfield’s chapel is full of flowers when I enter, including a beautiful spray from Janice and Reggie I know they can’t afford.

  “He was such a neat person,” I hear a lady whisper. “Such a loss.”

  “She’s so young to have lost both parents,” Her older friend replies. “Is she married?”

  “No. She’s the career type. She ran some magazine but it got bought out or something. I think she’s looking for work.”

  “Maybe she should look for more in life,” the judgmental old crone caws.

  I purposely turn, pretending to look for someone, just to see who the rude old cows are and make a plan to write them a very pointed thank you note. As the service starts I realize attendance is small, and the majority of mourners are friends of Dad’s from work and bowling. Very few in the journalism world even bothered to show up. Word must be out that I’m washed up or they would be here. If Valerie James’ father passed away, this chapel would be full.