by Megan Hart
Contents
Title
Front Matter
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
About the Author
Lost Our Forever by Natalie J. Damschroder
Behind the Mask by Jody Walllace
Rebuilding Forever by Natalie J. Damschroder
Ride With the Devil
Beneath the Veil
Seeking Eden
Blue Silver: Nothing Like the Sun
#2 in the Blue Silver Continuity Series
By
Megan Hart
BLUE SILVER: NOTHING LIKE THE SUN
an erotic novella in the Blue Silver continuity series by Megan Hart
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
"Blue Silver: Nothing Like the Sun”
2nd Edition
Published by Megan Hart (Chaos Publishing)
Copyright ©2006, ©2015 Megan Hart
Cover by Purple Girl Design
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any
manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the
case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This ebook is licensed for the original buyer only. This ebook may not be
re-sold or given away to other people at sharing sites, loops, discussion
boards or through other means. Thank you for respecting the hard work of
this author.
Author's Note: This book is part of a really rockin' continuity series
undertaken with authors Jodie Wallace and Natalie Damschroder. Wallace’s story features foul-mouthed Arliss, and Damschroder's two stories about the indomitable Cassie are LOST
OUR FOREVER and REBUILDING FOREVER.
Author's Second Note: This story was originally published as “Nothing Like the Sun” by Megan Hart via Amber Quill Press from 2006-2013. This edition is
updated and tweaked, but not substantially.
1
Georgie Davis was coming out. Not of the closet, or at a debutante ball. No, Georgie was surging out of her push-up bra.
“Big change from six months ago, huh, sweetheart?” Esther Feinman gestured with her ever-present cigarette clutched in one gnarled hand. “Remember, honey, the garter belt should go under the panties, if you want to be able to take them off in a hurry.”
“Right, right.” Georgie snapped the garters, then cupped her breasts, pushing them upward. “I look like I’ve got a set of grapefruits on my chest! With maraschino cherries on top.”
Esther laughed. “Well, honey, it’s pretty much a proven fact—if you want to catch a man’s attention, you gotta lure him with food or your titties. Grapefruits topped with maraschino cherries would do the trick, either way. I’m going to make some coffee. You want some?”
Still studying her reflection for flaws, Georgie nodded. “Sure, thanks Esther.”
Alone in front of the mirror, she sucked in her breath and struck a pose. Then another. Not out of vanity, though anyone watching her might have thought so. No. Georgie was merely evaluating “the look.”
“A little less Joan Crawford,” she murmured. “A little more Lana Turner.”
Esther didn’t know about Joe, or the accident that had put him in a coma for three months. She didn’t know how Georgie had sat by his bedside that entire time, giving up friends and career advancement to be there for him, certain he was the man she was meant to marry. Esther particularly didn’t know that Joe, once recovered, had left Georgie for his physical therapist, a fit young blonde named Nancy, who could lift twice her own body weight and smelled constantly of menthol ointment.
All Esther knew was that Georgiana Davis wanted to learn everything about being a top-class whore and had come to Esther to learn it, at the very reasonable price of weekly chauffeuring to the grocery store, cartons of Pall-Malls and boxes of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. So far, it had seemed worth every penny.
Georgie pursed her lips and blew her reflection a kiss. “If you can’t get Julian Manchester into bed, you’d better give up sex for the rest of your life.”
Esther didn’t know about Julian either, or Georgie’s plan to seduce a man she’d been in lust with for twenty years.
Georgie gave herself another once-over from carefully coiffed hair to red-painted toenails. She might look different, but the funny thing was…she didn’t feel very different. She still felt like the same squeeing fan-girl she’d been twenty-plus years ago when a flat tire had waylaid a girlhood dream. Georgie and her friends, The Silverettes, had never made it to the first Blue Silver concert they’d planned to attend. Now, though, the band had reunited for a reunion tour, and Georgie didn’t intend to miss a second chance.
“You all right in there?” Esther’s voice floated down the hallway.
“Yes, just changing!”
Georgie had to be back at the library in forty minutes. People would look at her a bit funny if she showed up dressed like this. She grabbed up her clothes, a plain, dark shirt-waist dress that left everything to the imagination, and dressed quickly, trading spiky heeled pumps for a pair of casual loafers and putting her platform heels back in her bag. She smiled, looking around the room where she’d spent the past six months getting ready for what she hoped would be the night of her life.
The news of the tour had been tucked away on an internet gossip blog between stories about one young starlet’s anorexia and a certain big Hollywood actor’s alleged plastic surgery. A small snippet, without even a paparazzi photo beside it. She almost missed it in scrolling through the site, but a name, Julian Manchester, caught her eye and she was hooked. She’d spent the next four hours Googling Julian and the boys, reliving the old crush and playing “Her Eyes” over and over again.
They’d done a lot in over the past couple of decades, though none of it rivaled the band’s heyday, when pink hair and lip gloss had ceased to be the realm of women only, and zebra-striped spandex pants were considered “awesome.” Julian had recorded an album of classical music. The other lads had worked on their own varied pet projects.
Now the boys from Britain were getting back together to do a tour of small clubs to promote their new CD, Renewal. An acoustic tour, stripped down, nothing like the grand arena days when thousands of screaming girls had danced themselves to exhaustion.
It had taken some work to put it all together. Calls to Cassie, Marcy, Lissie and Faith, the original fan club. Emails. Pleading. Begging. Georgie hadn’t quite made it to bribing before Cassie caved and agreed to use her connections to arrange for the band to kick off their tour in Harrisburg. That it would benefit the charity Ten Steps to the Moon was a bonus.
That it would get her into Julian’s bed was a secret.
“Come and get it while it’s hot!”
In the kitchen, the homey scent of coffee cake made her stomach rumble, but Georgie declined the piece Esther offered. “No, thanks.”
Esther tutted, but didn’t push it on her. “Lemme tell ya, hon, the best part about being retired? No more dieting.”
Georgie grinned and helped herself to a mug of coffee. “It’s not so bad, Esther. And it’ll be worth it.”
Esther laughed. “So, you like the bra or what? I told you my cousin Sadie would give you a discount, too.”
Georgie had purchased the
amazing foundation garment from The Second Garter. It had given her some impressive décolletage. “I’m not sure I can pull it off.”
“Honey,” said Esther with a martyred grimace, “that’s what you said about the fuck-me pumps, and look how well you took to them.”
Georgie had to admit, she had become fond of strutting around in shoes that once would have turned her ankle at one step. She liked the way the heels emphasized her legs and accentuated the swing of her hips as she walked. But the boobs?
“I don’t want to look like a porn star.”
“Bite your tongue. I taught you better than that. Porn star!” Esther snorted. “No-talent blow-up dolls is what they are.”
“Meow.” Georgie grinned at her mentor. “Esther, I’m surprised. Didn’t you tell me—”
“All us whores have to stick together, I know. I know!” The older woman shrugged and lifted another cigarette to her crimson-painted lips. She sucked in smoke and blew it out in a long, steady stream. “But, honey, there are whores. And there are whores.”
Georgie wasn’t quite sure of the difference, even if Esther seemed convinced of one. “Right. Esther, do you think I’d make a good whore?”
Blue eyes, still bright even in an age-lined face, twinkled as Esther looked Georgie over. “Honey, I think if you didn’t, you’d kill yourself trying. I never saw a girl work so hard as you.”
Georgie had set out to become a sexpot the way she’d done everything else—by studying. A new haircut and contacts instead of glasses had been a start, but she’d also watched videos and read textbooks on human sexuality. She’d gone to strip clubs for lessons on how to pole dance. She’d hit the jackpot when she met Esther, who’d come into the library asking for “some of those sexy love stories.” Still spry at eighty, the woman had once boasted a career as a famous madam, but she was proud to say she’d started as a whore, pure and simple, and proud of the fact. Videos about mating behavior were great, but Esther’s tutelage had taught Georgie how to put it all together. Every student had to eventually leave her teacher, though, and that time had come for Georgie. The Blue Silver concert was in just three weeks.
“Is it all gonna be worth it? I got to ask you.” Esther stirred her coffee.
“Is what going to be worth it?” Georgie winced at the bitter taste of her drink. Sophisticated ladies of the night might drink their coffee black, but Georgie liked hers much sweeter.
“All this stuff you been asking me to teach you. How to walk, how to dance, how to smoke, how to drink. How to give head. What you aiming for, honey? I know it ain’t a career.”
Georgie laughed. “No, Esther. Not a career. But the journey of a lifetime begins with a single strip.”
Esther laughed with her and waved Georgie over to the kitchen table, where she shoved the sugar bowl toward her. “So then, what?”
“One perfect night.” Georgie pulled a packet of artificial sweetener out of her purse instead of the sugar, ignoring Esther’s tutting at the choice.
“Ain’t no such thing.”
“Well, I intend to try.” Georgie added fat-free non-dairy creamer and sipped the coffee again. It would do. She looked up to see Esther staring at her, shaking her head. “What?”
“You’re a nice girl, Georgiana. I seen that the first time you came in here. Sure, you learned to walk the walk and talk the talk, but your heart ain’t in it. Is it?” Esther sounded curious, unsure.
“I like sex, Esther. I always have.”
“Oh, honey!” Esther guffawed, slapping the table so hard the mugs jumped. “That don’t hardly mean a thing!”
Georgie smiled. “Sure it does.”
Esther swept a gnarled hand over her bun of white hair. “A woman doesn’t squeeze her titties into lingerie and torture her feet to make herself enjoy fucking.”
“Sure she does.” Georgie was dead serious. “Women can be visually stimulated, just the same as men can. Studies prove—”
“Studies, schmuddies.” Esther waved a disinterested hand. “Does it work for you?”
After a moment and a long sip of coffee, Georgie nodded. “Yes. When I put on those clothes, and the makeup…the shoes, especially the shoes…well, I get turned on, thinking about how I look to men. How what I can do to them would make them feel.”
Esther was studying her carefully. “You like the power, hon.”
Georgie nodded, a bit surprised at first but then, not. Not after she’d thought about on it. “I guess you could say that. I like feeling I’m in control of my body. Making choices.”
“You like being something different.” Esther lifted a lecturing finger.
Georgie shook her head. “Not different. If anything, something the same. Just more.” She finished her coffee and stood. “I’ve got to get back to the library.”
Esther walked her to the door, spouting last minute tidbits of advice. “Dropping something for him to pick up always works, hon, and don’t forget trick I taught you with the cherry stems…”
“Yes. Yes, I know.” Georgie paused on the front porch. “Thanks, Esther. For everything.”
Esther didn’t know the story of Georgie’s tattered love life, but she nodded, just the same as if she did. “You doing all this for a man?”
“No.” On this, Georgie was firm. “I’m doing this for myself.”
Esther stabbed her cigarette in the air in exclamation. “Well, good. Because that’s the only way to do it.”
“I know,” Georgie said as she gave her teacher one last hug. “Believe me, I do.”
2
“Yeah, bring me the dove gray.” Julian gestured to the shopping assistant, who scurried at once to obey. “I’ll try that one.”
He stripped out of the black trousers he didn’t like and handed them to the girl, who blushed, but didn’t quite manage to avert her eyes. Julian paid her no attention, focusing instead on his reflection as he put on the new outfit.
Dove-gray tailored pants and fitted bolero jacket, white shirt with lacy sleeves and pink velvet collar. He turned around to look at it from all angles.
“Do these make my ass look fat?”
“Oh, no, sir! No!”
He gave the assistant a practiced smile, still not really paying attention to her face. “Seth? What do you think, mate?”
Seth barely glanced up from the magazine he was reading. “Of course not. You look fit. Hey, says here up-and-comers The Strangers list Blue Silver as their inspiration. Were these kids even born in when we were hot?”
“We’re still hot. Always will be.” Julian studied the clothes with a critical eye and stripped out of them. He looked like he was trying to hard, and that never suited him. “This won’t do, love. I need something elegant without being cheeky. Something that’s not pretentious.”
Nodding, the girl gathered the discarded clothes and hurried off. Now, Seth did look up. He rolled his eyes.
“Oh, because you’re absolutely never cheeky or pretentious.”
“Fuck you,” shot back Julian amiably. “You might be fucking Stanley Sad Sack, mate, but I intend to enjoy the hell out of myself this tour. Someone’s got to make the rest of you look good, and I’ve got the money and the taste to do it.”
Seth muttered something under his breath and went back to his magazine.
Julian put his hands on his hips just above the waistband of his form-fitting boxer briefs. “Tell me you don’t look forward to this, even just a little.”
Seth, of course, would likely rather poke out his own eyes than admit such a thing to Julian, even if Julian did know the man better than anyone else. He knew Seth hated and adored the idea of meeting up with his ex-wife again, but would the bastard say it? No. And if he wouldn’t say it to Julian, it was doubtful he’d ever say it to anyone, even himself.
The assistant returned, this time with a deep plum suit cut in the style of long-ago days, with a gorgeous silk cravat and long-cut coat. Today’s choice was a far cry from the days of velvet knickers, brocade jackets and lacy sle
eves, but it was nice.
“Perfect.” Julian admired himself. He could move in it, and the fit, with just a bit of tailoring, would emphasize his slim form, without making him seem frail. “Make me eight of them, love, all the same.”
“Yes sir!” The girl was breathless, cheeks tinged pink, and, satisfied with his own appearance, Julian took a moment to appreciate hers. Nice bust, tight little ass under a fitted dark skirt. Legs a little thick, but shapely ankles. The shoes needed updating, but she probably didn’t earn enough to shoe herself in anything grander than Kenneth Cole.
He watched her without hiding it as she bustled away, looking over her shoulder and giggling a bit as she left the dressing room.
“You never quit, do you?” Seth rolled up his magazine and tossed it in the garbage. “If you want me to leave so you can shag her in the dressing cubby, I’d be more than happy to.”
Normally Julian would have responded with a snappy insult about Seth’s own love life, but something in his friend’s voice stopped him. “She giggles and her shoes are cheap.”
“Ah. So the rest of her that you were so blatantly ogling doesn’t cancel out cheap shoes.” Seth sounded faintly amused.
“She’s a shop girl.” Julian pulled a fitted t-shirt bearing the face of Marilyn Monroe over his head, and shook his hair to set it back in place.
“That’s never stopped you before.”
That was true, and Julian laughed as pulled on a striped Oxford shirt and deliberately misbuttoned it halfway. He bent to tie his shoes, which suffered from a delightful lack of polish. He looked up at Seth with a grin.
“What can I say, man? I’m hungry and need lunch.”
Seth leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching. “You’re going to show up in next week’s Howdy magazine’s ‘What Happened?’ photo gallery.”
Julian stood and adjusted his belt, then grabbed up his black leather jacket. “Bite your tongue. This is what’s known as practiced dishevelment, mate. It takes hundreds of dollars to look this unkempt. The fashion rags know the difference, even if you don’t.”
