by Elsa Kurt
AWKWARD
ADVENTURES
IN DATING
ELSA KURT
Copyright © 2017 Elsa Kurt
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.
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www.elsakurt.com
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Printed in the United States of America
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-1-7337539-1-3
DEDICATION
No book of mine can go without recognition and gratitude first to my husband, partner, and best friend ever, Paul. Thanks also go to my daughters Kayla & Carey for always showing their love and pride in their mom, I am beyond blessed to call you mine.
CONTENTS
DEDICATION
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
1 NARRATORS, EVERYBODY’S GOT ONE
2 JUMP RIGHT IN
3 DRINK MORE, THINK LESS
4 SEX ON THE BEACH
5 PLAYING THE FIELD
6 DICK.ISH.NESS
7 IT’S DATING, NOT RELATION-SHIPPING
8 SEX, LIES & JUGGLING GUYS
9 PULL OUT YOUR DRAMA-METER
10 SOBRIETY IS OVERRATED
11 OOH, EPIPHANIES
12 GOTTA KEEP EM SEPARATED
13 FLYING ELBOWS, MAN
14 WHEN DO WE MEET HIM
15 I SAID, KEEP ‘EM SEPARATED
16 THE SUSHI HITS THE FAN
17 WHAT TO DO WHEN YOU’VE MADE A MESS
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While this book is work of fiction, it is impossible to not be influenced by people in my life. Many, if not all, of my characters are composites of people I know or have known in my little universe. Some are even a direct homage. I am ever grateful to all of those influences. Many thanks go to Jennifer Petrozza, Carol Hunsinger, and Mary Ellen Zenzie, you ladies are the best.
1 NARRATORS, EVERYBODY’S GOT ONE
Hello, I’m the narrator. Keira Travis’s narrator to be specific. Everybody has one, you know. Wait. You didn’t? Hmm. Yes, dear readers, you all have a narrator that kind of hovers above unseen, setting the tone and injecting details and thought bubbles, cueing appropriate music, and so on. Typically, narrators are ‘tuned out’ by their characters. It works in the same way we’re conditioned to not notice our own nose. You’ve now realized it’s true, haven’t you? Sorry. Disturbing, isn’t it? Anyhow, Keira has always been a peculiar sort of girl. You see, she’s always imagined her life as a book, so in her mind, it’s perfectly reasonable to have a narrator. Therefore, I don’t get tuned out. Yay for me.
Everyone has a narrator that suits them precisely, based on their personality and in this case, their preference. I, per Keira’s preference, have a wonderful upper-class English accent, despite that she is entirely American. I’ve been narrating her this way since she read Jane Austen at age ten. Thanks go directly to her Aunt Eve on her father’s side, a Jane Austen enthusiast who insisted that having the last name Bennet meant every Bennet girl should love Pride and Prejudice. I’ve come to quite enjoy it, surprisingly. Somewhere around the mid-nineties the chaps over at the BBC made a mini-series of her precious Pride and Prejudice, and I came to sound suspiciously identical to her beloved Colin-Firth version of Mr. Darcy.
Now that she’s grown, she doesn’t care to engage with me very much. Not like we used to when she was a child, at least. Terrible side effect of adulthood, I say. Oh, we had such good times back when she humored me, though. Alas, I suppose one can’t converse with one’s narrator past a certain age, not in public, at least, and our Keira found out the hard way. Yes, yes, I’ll take you there. Quickly, though. We have a story to get to after all…
***
Fourth grade, the first day of class.
“Keira Bennet. Please stop staring out the window and pay attention.”
The shrill voice of Miss. Beal, Keira’s thin mouthed, Orphan Annie haired, wretch of a—
“And what is so funny, young lady?”
Miss. Beal’s pointy face and piercing voice reminded Keira of an angry badger whose—
“Oh, shut it.”
The classroom fell silent at Keira’s outburst, shocked.
“What. Did. You. Say?” Miss. Beal glared.
Don’t say it, Keira. Don’t—
“I wasn’t talking to you, I—”
“You weren’t talking to me? Oh, is that so? Who, may I ask did you say ‘shut it’ to?”
“My—”
Don’t say it—
“My narrator.”
Silence. Then, laughter. The kind that begins as a twitter and chuckles before swelling to a cacophony, complete with finger pointing and desk slapping. The teacher sent her to the office, of course. Her classmates also teased Keira for about two weeks for having an imaginary friend, ending only when Tommy Pescarelli wet his pants during morning assembly and became the new target of derision.
***
Let’s say, I’ve been watching and narrating our wayward, wandering heroine for as long as she’s been on this earth as Keira Bennet (and later, Keira Travis) so I can tell you. she’s a sweet one, our Keira. Pretty thing, too. A lovely little buttercup you want to pluck and take home. Or a pretty canary… that keeps flying into window panes. You see now, that’s the thing with our girl, the something that makes her interesting (in a cringe-worthy way). She looks like she’d be graceful, but Lord is she not. No, Keira is a walking catastrophe, I must say. (Our sweet little bird has given me the finger.) She can’t help herself, she was born that way.
She came out arse-backward as her mother likes to tell it—except she says ass—and she’s more or less done everything in life in much the same fashion. Can’t walk a straight line without tripping, pass through a doorway without thumping a shoulder into its frame, doesn’t own a complete set of glasses or China because she’s dropped at least half. And on it goes. When Keira was six, she walked through the screen door. When she was seven, nine, twelve, and fourteen, she visited the emergency room for, in order, to the best of my recollection. Stitches in her left eyebrow, coffee table. Cast on her right wrist, she fell up the stairs. Cast on her right ankle, she fell down the stairs. And an overnight stay for a concussion, she fell backward out of her chair. Ice, band-aids, and ibuprofen remedied her many other incidents and mishaps.
You’re wondering, what the bloody hell is wrong with her? As it happens, nothing. Her parents had her thoroughly examined. She saw neurologists, psychiatrists and lots of other ists, but they said the same thing. she’s clumsy. So, that was that.
Unfortunately for our unlikely champion, her clumsiness is only matched by her social awkwardness. Sigh. To watch her is, well, awkward. Keira is—how can I say this? She is all elbows and knees… and with words,
too. Fun fact. she can write eloquently. But conversations… not so much. Unless she knows you well—and even then— she can be exhausting.
Because of Keira’s unfortunate, ahem, affliction, shall we say, she’s kept her world, AKA her bubble, small. It wasn’t much a surprise when she began dating her future husband, a local boy, right after high school. Nor was it a surprise when she married him after less than a year later. Not to me, at least. I absolutely saw it coming. Like a freight train. Darren, tsk. It was only a surprise it lasted for as long as it did.
Oh, did I mention? No, I suppose not. In addition to the clumsiness, the social awkwardness and what have you, Keira has terrible taste in men. Think back on those analogies. Those are precisely the kind of men Keira dated. Men who wanted to pluck her like a flower and cage the little birdie. For her own protection. That’s what those types said. Keira has always fallen for it, too. Whenever she did finally see what was happening, she dumped them like a, like a—hmm, so many comparisons to choose from—like a just bitten apple with a worm inside. No? I should’ve gone with the hot potato? Oh, well.
Now, I’ve tried to nudge her in the right direction. Many times, but that girl has a head thicker than a brick wall. There’s that middle finger again. Take that helpful little book I practically dropped into her lap yesterday, The Smart Woman’s Guide to Dating A dear narrator friend of mine wrote it. Yes, we have a life outside of babysitting our charges, you know. It’s not much, usually when they’re sleeping or being excessively dull, but it’s something. She’s well known for her narrating another hot mess of a woman back in the nineties, one whose dating disasters post-divorce were legendary. Now they mostly hang out on the coast and sell her heroine’s art. She still narrates her goings on, but on a much smaller scale. Plenty of free time to write a book.
Anyhow, my ward seems to be only skimming the chapters and ignoring the advice. It’s par for the course with her, though. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. This girl has not given me a dull day yet. Take right now for instance…
2 JUMP RIGHT IN
Chapter One in The Smart Woman’s Guide To Dating. Hey, newly single ladies. You’re ready to get out there, have some fun and meet someone, huh? Good for you. Now, try not to jump right onto sex. Start off simple. a nice dinner date, a movie maybe. You’ve got to ease your way back into the groove of dating.
“Unzip me, please?”
“Your skin is so soft.”
“Just un—oh. Okay, keep doing that.”
Keira had innocently caught her hair in the zipper at the back of her dress. She had no intentions of sleeping with Dale... until his rough fingertip traced her spine as he unzipped her dress, freeing the tangle as he did. That’s what she’d told herself as she gazed at her reflection in the contemporary, upscale restaurant bathroom mirror earlier. Then she’d returned to the table. He sat there so casually, not caring he stuck out in his black jeans and a black leather vest over a short-sleeved, vintage rock t-shirt that just so happened to show off every tattoo on his lean, muscular arms. He had shoulder-length, sandy blond hair, and bedroom blue eyes. She had a thing for musicians. They paid their tab and as he drove her home, she heard herself say,
“Come in for a drink?”
Invite him in for one drink, then send him away. Otherwise you’re—.
“Stop talking to me,” hissed Keira.
“Uh, sorry? What?”
“No, not you, my—never mind.”
Oops, my bad, as they say.
She turned her back to Dale—the man she’d later only refer to as Rock Band—and swept the rest of her long honey-colored hair aside for him.
It had been ages since a man touched her in a way that made her hungry for it. But there was no denying, she wanted his touch. The zipper ended right above the small of her back, and Dale’s hot hands slipped inside the loosened fabric, caressing her bare hips, up her ribcage, along the swell of her breasts, over her shoulder blades, then rested against her collarbone. He was waiting for her to assent to what was to come next.
If she hesitated, it was for only a split second before she gave a gentle roll of her sun-tanned shoulders, letting the straps slide off them. It was a sleek, smooth, satiny dress, and it needed only a little more help past her full hips before falling to the floor in a whispery smoke gray heap. Keira had never felt this sexy, this uninhibited, this free in her own skin.
This man who she’d known only a short time and barely at all was touching her in a most delicious way. She silenced the little cautionary voice in her head, the one that told her good girls don’t sleep with strange men, even if he was the singer in a band had a tattoo of Elvis on his forearm. She almost listened, but the wicked voice spoke up and said, do it, Keira. Do him. Live a little. As if knowing she needed persuasion, he traced her curves down to the line of her panties, slipped his fingers underneath and cupped her firmly but gently, pulling her back against his hardness. A small, involuntary gasp escaped her lips, and she reached back with one hand to caress him. She wrapped her other hand up and around the back of his neck, turning her head to pull him into a kiss. Their tongues touched and flicked, then he turned her to face him.
Ah, sorry, narrator’s pause here. That is how you would like it told, Keira dear, but come now. They know you well enough to realize you couldn’t get through such a moment without mishap. As I speak, you’re trying to disengage your ring from his hair, and you’ve forgotten to step out of your dress, so there’s no doubt you’re about to trip. But, if this is how you want it told, it shall be so…
He walked her back towards the wall, caressing, squeezing, kissing all the way. When they could walk no further, he pressed her against the wall and ran his hand down her thigh, curling his hand around the back of her knee and raised it as he pressed more insistently against her. She marveled at how badly she wanted him inside her and could wait no longer.
“I want you. Now.”
“Yeah? Show me, Keira. Show me how bad you want me. Unzip me.”
Dale grinned wickedly, lust-drunk and heavy breathing. Emboldened by that look in his eye, she reached down, and without taking her hazel eyes off his baby blues, she loosened his belt, unbuttoned, then unzipped the fly of his jeans. Matching his slow pace, Keira slipped her hand into his waistband and caressed. Its effect was apparent, he wanted her immediately.
They were both undressed. Once his clothes and what remained of hers were in a tangled mess on the floor, he pressed himself against her. The skin on skin contact was electrifying. He lifted her effortlessly, she straddled him, and they rocked and bucked until she climaxed. Moments later, he finished, and they panted against each other, spent.
“Well, hey.”
“I know, right? I suppose you wouldn’t believe me if I said I don’t normally bring men I’ve just met home and—”
“—and fuck them in your foyer,” Dale smirked at her, still breathing heavy.
Oh, very classy. He’s quite the keeper, now, isn’t he?
“Not the words I’d have used,” she laughed, “but yes.”
They slid onto the foyer carpet, sitting side by side.
“Well, lady, you are hella the surprise. I mean, I totally thought you were sexy that night at the bar, dancing up at the stage with your girlfriends, but I didn’t realize you’d be so damn hot.”
Keira tilted her head at him, her eyebrow lifted. Sure, lust had made her bold, but the ‘real’ Keira was not like... that. Real Keira was a newly divorced mom of two daughter’s. Real Keira had a house she might not be able to afford. A new job that might not last. An ex-husband who was resentful and vindictive. A semi-stalkerish ex-boyfriend that wouldn’t go away. Not to mention two crazy dogs, and she really, really needed to feel something other than the hurricane of emotions she’d been feeling. In short, she needed to get laid.
Now that she had, what should she do next? She looked over at Dale, naked, tattooed, and propped up against the wall beside her. He was good-looking, not great. Taller than her, b
ut not by much. Well, Keira had always had a thing for musicians, and now, she’d finally slept with one. It was like a perverse bucket list item. Keira laughed out loud.
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh, I’m realizing that I’m sitting here naked on my foyer floor with a man I barely know.”
“What do you wanna to know about me?” He drummed a multi-ringed hand on his bare leg a moment. “Let’s see. I’m in a rock band, but you already know that. Um, I have a twenty-two-year-old son. Was married briefly. That tanked. We’re cool with each other, though. My day job is my construction company. Gigs don’t pay the bills, unfortunately. Anything else I can tell you? Oh, before you answer that, let me say, I like you, Keira. This doesn’t have to be a one and done thing.”
Aww, isn’t he sweet?
Keira didn’t respond. Did she want she want to see him again? The idea of being a singer’s girlfriend had its appeal. A fantasy of him pointing to her from the stage as he sang while all the women swooned with envy flashed through her mind. She imagined telling her girlfriends she was dating a musician and their reactions. Keira also imagined, with no small amount of wicked glee, telling Darren that she was dating a musician. Enticing notions.
On the other hand, she was newly divorced. Free. As someone who’d gone from relationship to relationship in her teens and married at twenty, It was time to face her mid-thirties with independence. At least for a little while. So, she decided not to answer him and instead patted his bare thigh before she stood to retrieve her dress from the floor.
“How ‘bout that drink I offered you?”
“Sure. I’m starving. Got any food?”
So, Keira made omelets and coffee for herself and the man she’d met two nights before at a club.
