San Diego Sunset
A Phaze Snuggler HeatSheet by Alessia Brio and Will Belegon
Phaze 6470A Glenway Avenue, #109 Cincinnati, OH 45211-5222
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
eBook ISBN 1-59426-567-4
San Diego Sunset © 2006 by Alessia Brio and Will Belegon
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Cover art © 2006 by Trace Edward Zaber
Phaze is an imprint of Mundania Press, LLC.
www.Phaze.com
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One
He awoke with the image in his mind again: the beach at sunset with the cliffs behind him and the mysterious dark-haired woman in his arms. The same exact dream for months now! They lay naked on a towel, khaki clothing tossed carelessly to the sand nearby, entwined in the reverent stillness that so often follows urgent sex. He inevitably woke at just the wrong moment—right before she told him her name.
Mornings seemed colder when he had the dream for some reason. The aftereffects only intensified as winter came into its power and the wind whistled up the Columbia River. The Portland wind always carried a little chill, but lately it stole more than the warmth of his coffee. It seemed as though it dimmed the dawn—as if the sun could light his way but not warm his shoulders. The feeling would evaporate with the dew, only to return in a few nights when the dream recurred. It was bittersweet, because although the next morning felt empty, it held a comfort as well: a feeling of purpose that had been lacking in his life since he moved north. The days after the dream inevitably produced a breakthrough or a conclusion, as though just the presence of the mysterious woman in the back of his mind could free him to look at things in fresh ways and find new solutions to old problems. She was a paradox, a calming presence that drove his life in uncomfortable directions. The days when she did not spring to mind were both less stressful and less complete.
He was sure he had the beach nailed down. It was Black's Beach, in his hometown. While he had never been down on the sand, he had seen many pictures. An ex-girlfriend regularly sunbathed there, and she had told him how to get down the cliffs or walk along the beach from La Jolla Shores. What did not seem to jibe was that in his dreams the beach was always deserted. Black's Beach was one of the very few in the United States where nudity was tolerated, if no longer strictly legal, and his memories of pictures and conversations about Black's almost always involved a steady crowd despite the difficulty of access.
That Friday afternoon, the last weekday before Christmas, he decided that the time had come to figure out exactly why his subconscious created the recurring dream and mystery woman. It wasn't a difficult decision to make, given the allure of his destination. His job was the only thing holding him in Portland for the holidays, and work would not be a problem. His boss had been riding him since Thanksgiving about how—once again—the end of the year was upon them with only half his vacation time used. The sense of restlessness was starting to gnaw at the edges of his contentment. He wasn't unhappy in the Pacific northwest. He enjoyed his career and colleagues. Portland's people were friendly, and it had enough of the big city feel to keep him happy. Yet, with just a short drive, he could reach Skamania County on the Columbia River gorge and feel disconnected from his Monday through Friday grind. But, his life lacked something. It was just a feeling sometimes: an empty chair in the corner that looked wrong; walking outside the office on his lunch break and being halfway to his car before realizing he had absolutely no idea where he was going; standing in the hallway before leaving, patting his pockets and checking in his satchel, certain that something had been forgotten but unable to imagine what it might be. So he sat down at his desk, circled the week between Christmas and New Year's, cleared his calendar of appointments, and started planning his trip.
He still wasn't sure that it made a lot of sense, but he booked the flight anyway. What compelled him to make it at that time? Sure, his boss would like that it used another week of this year's paid time off, but he hated to travel during the holidays. The added stressors made people grouchy and annoyed. Lines were longer, too, with kids headed home from college and grandparents complaining about everything except seeing their grandchildren. He hoped he would never again accidentally overhear a gallbladder operation story. It just seemed like the trip had to be that week.
He expected to encounter significant barriers to such last-minute holiday travel. Thus, the mystery intensified when he was able to effortlessly reserve the last available room at his first choice of hotels and book the only remaining seat on the flight he wanted. He considered himself pretty skeptical, shunning the notion that something as ethereal as fate could influence his life path. Preordination got in the way and made his sense of adventure meaningless. After all, you weren't cheating death if you were meant to die twenty years later, right? Fate, destiny, and all that metaphysical crap were just ways for people to manipulate themselves away from the harder choices. Why work at something, after all, if you could just acceptthat it wasn't meant to happen?
Two
"No," she groaned as sleep escaped into the dawn, "Don't go!" Remnants of the dream teased her consciousness. She shivered as she pushed aside the sheets, damp from her perspiration, and rose on shaky legs. The dream was always more vivid toward the end of each month, as if the date carried some mysterious power. And, as the end of the year approached, it intensified to the point of distraction.
Although it was a seemingly innocuous—albeit erotic—dream, it carried with it a promise of many passion-filled tomorrows. The mildest versions simply contained an image of the sun setting into the sea, obviously the west coast. As each month progressed, however, it would grow in duration and intensity until she'd wake with his name on her lips, the pulses of her orgasm fading. The name she could never recapture, but the touch and the scent and the sound of him were as memorable as the sight. His words, spoken into her ear with an urgency bordering on desperation, echoed in her mind: Come to me. His skin smelled of the sea, as if he'd been in the water and dried by the sun, and he tasted of her sex.
Grabbing the notepad and pen from her nightstand, she rapidly jotted down a couple new clues as to the location: a hang glider coasting lazily overhead; a winding path, with occasional rough stairs, along a steep hillside; dark sands on the beach at its base. She shook her head in frustration as the images dissipated, leaving behind only a pervasive longing. There was no doubt in her mind that the place was real. She would find it eventually, and when she did, she'd go there. It was crazy but, no matter the time or the trouble or the cost, she would go. The incredible pull left her no alternative. He'd be waiting there for her, on that beach at sunset. Ready and waiting. The thought warmed the embers of her climax.
Outside, the sun shone with a clarity that seemed to be magnified by below-freezing temperatures. Detouring only long enough to start a pot of coffee, she carried her laptop onto the deck, wiping off a chair while the machine whirred to life. Her neighbors undoubtedly thought her a bit eccentric, but she started every day with coffee on her deck—regardless of the weather. It calmed her, and
after the recurrent dream, she was in great need of calming. The invigorating air penetrated her full-length fleece robe and fuzzy slippers. It was better than caffeine.
The Internet thus far had not been much help, but armed with new information she pecked a string of keywords into the search box and sent it into the ether with a muttered prayer. The results were encouraging: down from 8,160 hits to just under five hundred. On a whim, she added the word"California" to the query, since it occupied such a large expanse of the Pacific coast, and resubmitted. There! On the very first page, the words jumped out at her: Torrey Pines Gliderport. So THAT was what the sign said; the sign which would never come into focus in her dreams.
When her head began to swim, she realized she'd been holding her breath. Fear mingled with anticipation, causing a tingly pressure in her sternum which radiated outward. She felt on the verge of a life-changing discovery, and with trembling hands she placed the laptop on the glass patio table as if it'd suddenly become too hot to touch. After all these months of searching, piecing the puzzle together, she somehow knew that once she clicked that link, nothing would ever be the same.
She rose and backed away, eyes never leaving the screen. Only when her backside bumped into the door frame did she turn and enter the apartment. The coffee was ready, and she poured a couple ounces onto the counter before realizing that she'd not gotten a mug from the cupboard. Cursing herself, she threw a few paper towels over the mess, fetched a mug, and tried again. By the time she returned to the deck, the screen saver had activated. She watched for a while as the pictures scrolled: snapshots of a life which now felt foreign, as if it'd been lived by a doppelganger—a shadow of her true self.
The search screen returned as soon as she touched the keyboard. "No time like the present," she gulped, clicking the link. The view from her dream filled the screen, and she gasped as tears of relief burned her eyes. The beach at the base of those cliffs was precisely where she needed to be, and she had to be there the next time the dreams peaked in intensity—only a few days away. There was no information about the beach itself on that Web site, but she was not dissuaded. She dashed off an e-mail to the address displayed and decided that if there was no response by noon—nine o'clock on the west coast—she'd follow up with a phone call.
Over her second cup of coffee, she booked a flight to San Diego, made reservations at an upscale hotel, and left a message for the building manager that she'd be away for a while. There were several cheaper lodging options, but they just didn't feel right. La Valencia had a welcoming vibe, and as she entered her credit card number into the online form, a different type of anticipation replaced the nervous anxiety. A restless impatience settled over her and came to rest between her legs, where it coalesced into a dense ball of desire.
She was scheduled to begin a new job on the day after Christmas, but they'd just have to wait. If it was meant to be, the position would still be hers when she returned. If not, well, that was just one less tie to sever should she wish to relocate. Baltimore was her home, and it had been comfortable, like a favorite pair of jeans, until the dreams started. That was when the familiarity of routine became grating, and she began to seriously consider a change. Life was too short to be lived in a rut, especially when there was such unbridled passion on the horizon.
Three
Gorgeous weather greeted his arrival. The sun was hotter when he journeyed further south, and there was no chill wind with the taste of snows to come. The air smelled like home and, at this time of year, the difference was far more tangible. Portland's air might be a little cleaner due to all the vegetation and the Columbia River, but San Diego would always hold a special place in his heart. It had hurt to leave, but he had to follow the work and, once his parents had passed on, there had not really been anything tying him to this city. But even with those ties gone, he still felt he belonged in Southern California more so than in the Pacific Northwest.
He stood at the window and looked out over the ocean below. The steam from his coffee curled up and lightly misted the glass near the table. Behind him theLiving Room Coffeehouse was busy and loud; here, looking west at the horizon, he felt isolated from the woman's voice ordering the double raspberry mocha and the college kids talking about last night's adventures in Tijuana.
So what to do with his day? He had not packed a swimsuit since the beach in question wouldn't require it, and—even for San Diego—it was unseasonably warm. A winter Santa Ana had gifted late December with a touch of spring. While he had plenty of friends in town, he didn't want to tell anyone where he was. He grinned as he imagined trying to explain the purpose for his visit to his old friends. Their incredulity might actually make it worth the effort, but he preferred not to get caught up in hellos and goodbyes. For some reason, he felt today was without pressure: the calm before the storm. No need to stress about anything. He decided to spend the day alone—revisiting old haunts—then return to La Jolla for dinner and drinks at The Spot across the street, and let things just happen for a change.
The morning had a sense of entitlement about it, as though the universe itself was feeling smug and proud of its accomplishments. Maybe it should. He certainly was still surprised at himself for just up and leaving like he did. He could not remember ever traveling someplace on a feeling before—on a whim. Something was in the air, something more potent than just the smell of chocolate coffee and raspberry syrup. Chocolate and raspberry? Why did that stand out? He turned to look but all he caught was the closing of the door and the last whiff of vapor rising from the oversized cup and saucer at the table nearest the street.
Placing his now-empty cup on the table, he walked toward the exit. Something elusive compelled him: a thought he could not quite grasp and a need to solve the mystery of two scents on the air that overrode the pervasive bitterness of the espresso machine. He stopped at the streetside plate glass window, looking up at the passersby in the La Jolla morning. Most were merchants hurrying by with their heads down, seeing only pavement instead of the morning's beauty. They rushed to open the little shops that lined Prospect and Girard Streets. There, they sold the T-shirts and souvenirs for tourists to give grandchildren and neighbors upon return to St. Louis or East Lansing. But, no one looked remarkable. Preparing to join them, he glanced back to reassure himself that he'd left nothing behind.
His eyes tracked across the table's surface and focused on the white porcelain cup. It still had a trace of chocolate in its base. A paper napkin lay folded beside it and on the rim between, a smudge of color remained.
He recognized the color. He could have picked it from any cosmetics display without hesitation. It made no sense, but it was so. It had to be coincidence. There had to be a different explanation. Perhaps it was a common shade…but, no. He knew it wasn't, and even if it were, he could never identify it as such. The only explanation that fit was the very one he resisted. Yet, he knew he had seen that color night after night for months. He could picture the lips that wore it, hear the…hear her voice. The voice that had just ordered a double raspberry mocha! Maybe there really was something to this destiny foolishness.
Four
Mornings smelled differently on the west coast, she decided, savoring the last tastes of her raspberry double mocha indulgence on her lips. Not better or worse, just different. The climate, as expected, was more temperate. December in San Diego felt like April in Baltimore, although there wasn't nearly as much of a delta between the daily high and low temperatures. Perhaps the steady hum of anticipation heightened her senses, or perhaps she'd developed a new meta-awareness of her surroundings. Regardless of the cause, it was invigorating and she reveled in every touch, every taste, and every scent. Even the breeze blowing across her face felt like a lover's caress—with its fingers lifting her hair to expose and kiss her neck.
As she strolled along Prospect Street, taking in the sights and sounds of downtown La Jolla, the bustling coffee shop had drawn her inside. He was nearby, she suspected. She could feel his restless need. It
mirrored her own and fueled the anticipation. Knowing, inexplicably, that this wasn't the right place or the right moment for their meeting, she simply savored his proximity. The time was drawing near, and the place—she'd learned from the friendly soul who responded to her email—had a name: Black's Beach. The map on the front seat of her rental car was already marked with the route. He'd advised her to wear sturdy shoes if she planned to hike down to the beach, as the trail was rough to begin with and made more so by last March's storms. Thus, her afternoon agenda included shopping for footwear, for she'd not the time to do so before her flight departed BWI.
While eager to get on with her day, she still felt the pang of withdrawal as she finished her coffee and returned to the streets. Although certain tonight wasn't the night, she planned to drive up to Torrey Pines around sunset anyway—to gauge the timing and scope out the area, if nothing else. It appeared to be about three miles, as the crow flew, but distances could be deceiving. Plus, there could be road construction or other delays to avoid. The rental car was an expense she could not afford, especially considering the cost of the hotel. But having traveled all the way across the country in pursuit of a dream, she was not going to trust the most important part of the journey to the unpredictability of a taxi.
Resisting the urge to indulge herself in some of the nicer shops, but she eventually found some Reeboks that would suffice. She cringed at incurring yet another expense, but it seemed rather silly to scrimp on preparations to meet her destiny.
Destiny. The word inspired conflict in her. She believed, with all her heart, in free will. Yet, another part of her believed just as strongly that some people were meant to be together; that such chemistry was very real and, once discovered, must be allowed to flourish lest the force of it destroy one's peace. And so, once again, she splurged; just as she haddone on the flight, the hotel, the car and, to a lesser degree, the fancy coffee. It was almost as if the cosmos required a tangible investment as proof of her commitment; a test, of sorts. Yet soon—very soon—all such mundane concerns would be eclipsed by passion.
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