by Leslie Pike
The Trouble With Eden
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Playlist
The Trouble with Eden
Copyright © 2015 by Leslie Pike
All Rights Reserved
Editing by:
Kara Hildebrand Editing
Cover design by:
Kari March, K23 Design and Photography
Interior Formatting and Design by:
Christine Borgford, Perfectly Publishable
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
BLISS
I can barely keep my eyes open.
Like Cleopatra on her chaise, I lie face to the sky enjoying a rooftop poolside catnap. After my morning workouts, I take time to decompress. If only someone would peel me a grape.
My lids close, as the August sun lulls me into an intoxicating half sleep. The heat feels so good on my skin, soothing my overworked muscles.
Ironic, that the pleasures of life can trick us into affection, and then need. Sun, food, sex, everything we enjoy we can enjoy too much. And when we do, the pleasure becomes the source of our pain. How well I understand this perversion.
I close my eyes, pushing down the past. I prefer to think of the now. Gorgeous day, gratitude for the gifts of life that are mine, and the entire pool to myself.
SPLASH!
The sound of a body diving into the pool interrupts my little Valhalla. I’m shocked by what feels like a blast of glacial water.
Droplets rain down on my hot skin and white bikini, and I shiver with the impact. My reflex is to jump up, but decide instead to investigate the source.
I lift the oversized brim of my red straw hat to peek at the intruder. Who trespasses in my personal Garden of Eden?
A golden male body streaks under the water, powerful, aerodynamic. He rises to the surface, and takes long easy strokes. I’ve seen enough to know that this particular body is pretty damned beautiful.
Adjusting my position to get a better look, I watch him turn and head back toward my end of the pool.
Lift your head, lift your head. Let me see your face. I will it so.
As if on cue, he reaches for the edge of the pool and raises his head out of the water. Wow.
I’m dazed into silence. My pulse quickens.
Pillowed lips, dark thick hair, penetrating green eyes, well defined jaw line, it all comes together in a perfect storm of hotness.
And for just a few moments, the entire picture I see freeze frames. The world stops and makes sure I’m paying attention.
He smiles at me.
“Morning,” Adonis speaks. His voice is seductive and flirtatious.
“Morning,” I flash him my best smile, and my interest is completely sincere.
Putting his hands on the pool’s edge, he lifts himself out in one effortless motion.
“Jesus,” I mutter, under my breath.
His right shoulder is covered in tattoos that wrap around to his chest. I can see one on the underside of his left forearm, a snake I think, and a piece of another peeking out of the bottom of his trunks. Suddenly, I’m a big fan of tattoo art.
He stands dripping in front of me. My eyes follow the envious journey of droplets running from his hair, down his chest, over his flat stomach, and into the band of his trunks. My eyes linger for a nanosecond on the mother lode. Yep. Ding ding ding. Oh yeah.
“I’m Steven.”
“Bliss. Bliss Novak.”
“Your name’s Bliss?” A tiny smile escapes his lips.
I’m used to this. Over the years I’ve heard all kinds of crude and inappropriate reactions when men hear my name. It’s the fastest way to turn me off. Just an anonymous gift from my birth mother.
I don’t answer him. He heard me the first time. I change the subject.
“New to the gym?”
Without asking, he pulls the adjacent chaise close to mine, and takes a seat. One dark curl breaks free, and hangs over his forehead. Ok, I’m not completely opposed to him sitting here. I remove my hat so that nothing blocks my view. My long brunette hair tumbles loose.
“Actually, I’m just in Pacific Grove for a short time. Six months at the most. But, my first priority was to find a good gym. This place seems to have it all.”
I see him look me over, but in a very discreet way. He’s not overt, not salacious in his admiration. But he’s looking. He’s definitely looking.
“You’re really a beauty. Stunning in fact.”
I’m thrown by his comment. He doesn’t say it like he’s hitting on me, but more as if it’s a matter of fact. Like he’s appreciating a piece of art. For me it was the luck of the draw in life. Sometimes it served me, and sometimes it didn’t.
But today, it’s definitely working for me.
“Thank you.” I’m feeling shy. How odd. I feel my face flush, and I’m sure he notes it too.
He stretches out on the chaise, and takes in the sun. Now with his eyes closed, I can manage a closer look. I put my hat back on, to hide my wandering eyes.
I notice body beautiful has many old scars and fresh bruises. And they’re not all in one area. What’s that about?
As I continue with my appraisal, a group enters the pool area. Two teenage boys, and three teen girls. Maybe seventeen, eighteen years old. I watch one in particular. She’s the one hanging in the background, beach towel wrapped tightly around her body. She’s trying to hide the twenty-five extra pounds she’s carrying.
The other kids are slim and perfect in their youth. Not a dimple of cellulite or roll of fat among them.
I know this scenario, and I understand her pain. That was me as a preteen. I will never forget how it felt. My weight dictated or affected everything I did. And I had no one in my corner to help me build my confidence. Their voices carry across the pool.
“Lose the towel, Zoe,” the cookie-cutter cheerleader-type, commands.
She grabs the edge of the towel, and tugs at the corner.
The others find great amusement in the girl’s distress.
One of the boys, a boy band wannabe, finds particular delight in the taunting. He obsessively swings his absurd hair st
yle out of his eyes.
The cheerleader snorts like a pig. “Souieeeee!”
Her audience responds.
I see Steven sit up, as he listens to the conversation. My attention is on them too. They force the towel from the girl, and then laugh at her discomfort. The girl dives into the pool, and by the time she does, I’m up and headed their way. Privileged spoiled brats, using daddy’s gym membership.
I walk slowly and purposely, knowing as I approach their eyes are on me. The boys try to puff out their chests, as if I’d be impressed with their manhood. The girls aren’t at all happy with the loss of the boys’ attention. They are no longer the chosen ones. This is exactly as I intend.
“Hi.” I say with a smile meant to dazzle.
“Hi” the boys respond in unison. They can hardly believe their good fortune. The two girls say nothing.
I turn to the girl responsible for exposing the victim.
“I saw what you did to that girl.”
A look of defiance crosses her face.
“We were just messing around.”
I adopt a quasi-sweet voice.
“Here’s the thing honey. I understand your actions show you’re not too sure about your own attractiveness. But don’t worry. Someday there’ll be a boy who’s interested in you. There’s a somebody for everybody.”
She’s pissed. I pick a random feature to call to her attention. I lean in and whisper.
“Thin lips can easily be camouflaged with the right makeup.”
I touch her arm in a fake gesture of camaraderie. I have stunned her into silence. She touches her lips.
I turn to the boys.
“And you two, any girl who laughs at another’s expense, or belittles someone for your entertainment will do the same to you. So when you decide to hook up with these kind of bitches, you better make sure you’re VERY confident about the size and performance of your little dicks. Because believe me, they’re going to be rated and reviewed.”
I turn and strut away. Four stupefied faces stare in disbelief. As I pass the girl in the pool, she gives me a barely perceptible nod of gratitude. I wink back.
I rejoin Steven. He smiles in appreciation.
“Whatever you said shut them up. Good job.”
“I just offered a little unsolicited advice.”
“I considered offering you my fighting skills as a backup plan,” he says.
“Is that how you got all these bruises? Fighting?”
He shoots me a smile. What a face.
“No. I’m a stuntman. The bruises and scars are all part of my job. That’s what I’m in town for. We’re shooting a film in Monterey, starting Monday.”
“Really? I’ve never met a stuntman before.”
“How do you like it?” Oh, I like it.
But I just smile. He’s a little cocky, or maybe it’s confidence. I haven’t decided yet. Whatever it is, it’s working for him.
Standing beside me, Steven is a good four inches taller than I am. Maybe five eleven, six foot, to my five-seven. He’s lean, but definitely muscular. Tight as a drum that stomach. In a flash, I picture myself lying on top of him. I grin at the thought.
I’m returned to the present by his request.
“I’m going to grab a shower, would you be interested in joining me for a coffee after that? It’s my first day in Pacific Grove, but I think I saw a Starbucks a few blocks away.”
I hear myself say, “Yes.” It’s before I have even considered my usual conditions.
I like to know enough about a man to make an intelligent decision. Do I want to spend even an hour of my life with him? Does he respect women? Is he kind? What are his political leanings? Can he support himself? I know none of these things.
All I know is what my libido is telling me. And that bitch has such a loud voice.
“I can recommend a cafe that’s a favorite here. It’s called The Red House, and it’s right on Lighthouse, just three minutes away. They have great lattes too. We can walk if you’d like,” I say.
As turned on as I am, I’m not getting in a car with a man I met twenty minutes ago. But walking with him down the Main Street of town, that’s different. I can already feel my force field lowering.
“Perfect. See you in the lobby at three,” he says.
His hand touches mine, and I feel an actual chemical reaction. At least that’s how I define this ache. I’ve felt it before, but never this strongly.
Just be careful Bliss, don’t let the ache be your master. My inner dialogue reminds me of the past, and of past mistakes.
As he walks away, I gather my things and head for the showers.
On the other hand, it couldn’t hurt to be a little spontaneous. I really have nothing to fear, because I’ve learned to be in complete control of my choices in life. I’ve learned from my mistakes, and now I listen to reason as well as my heart. I’ve found it to be one of the greatest empowerments of age.
Once inside the ladies lounge, I gather the provided toiletries. That’s one of the perks of such a high end gym. No cheap products, no alcohol rich shampoos. Towels made of Egyptian cotton, and crèmes you’d find in a spa in Geneva. Good lighting, good mirrors, and good music all set the stage.
I hear Bruno Mars playing in the background. That always puts me in a good mood.
I’m paying for this high end motivation, but he’s paying for it too. I wonder how. What affords him this lifestyle? Does the stunt business pay that well, or does he spend every last cent on maintaining his body beautiful? Stop it Bliss. You’re not marrying the guy, it’s just a coffee.
I strip off my bathing suit, and make my way toward the shower. As I pass two women sitting on the wooden bench, I feel their eyes on me. When we make eye contact they both quickly look away. I hang my towel, and step into the shower.
Adjusting the temperature of the water, I lift my face to the stream. I let myself begin to get lost in the memory of Steven’s face, and from there the memory of his body. All the while, Bruno sings his sexy anthem “Gorilla.” I couldn’t have scored the moment better.
I wash my hair. The scent of jasmine carries me away, while dreaming about what it would be like to kiss his lips. I wash my arms and torso. What it would be like to flick my tongue on his nipples. The soap drips down my back and ass, and I remember those droplets of water moving over his glorious abs. What it would be like to put my hand down his pants, and feel him grow, entwined in my fingers.
My middle finger finds my pussy, and I begin the steady rhythm that I’m so familiar with. Images flash through my mind, one after the other. Quick pictures of him, that bring me closer and closer.
His powerful arms stroking the water, the droplets streaking down his stomach, and the lock of hair falling over his eyes. Oh yeah, that lock of hair.
How his lips look when he smiles, and how they must feel.
When I think of his touch, our momentary connection, I know I’m close.
Remembering all the tiny details of but one meeting is erotic beyond reason. I imagine him inside me. It’s enough to send me flying. I lean against the tile, and come and come and come.
And Bruno sings.
Holding onto the moment, barely moving, I press my hand against the source of my pleasure. The throbbing slows to a stop. I don’t want the feeling to end. But it does, and I return to my default normal self. Damn reality.
Mind cleared, I turn off the water, exit the stall, and look around for proof no one overheard my private party. Satisfied I’m alone, I head for my locker.
Why in the hell did I agree to meet Steven in the lobby? I didn’t think this out. I’m stuck with the clothes I came here with. No jewelry no makeup, no adornments. And flip flops. I brought flip flops. Oh God.
I’m a confident woman. I can deal with a curve ball, but I do love all the rituals and rites of being female. I’m sorry to be denied that today.
“Get over it.” I say aloud. Just be yourself.
I take my purse and tote from the bottom of the
cabinet, and set them on the bench. I pull out a pair of jean shorts and a turquoise sleeveless T. I dig through the bag, and quickly realize I have no bra, only my thong.
“Balls.”
I used a sports bra for my workout, then I got into my bikini. I think for a moment before I decide to go commando on top. My T isn’t see through, and it’s not like I have enormous boobs. It could work.
It takes all of fifteen seconds to don my formal wear. I take a look at my reflection in the full length mirror.
Ok, it’s not my favorite, but I like it. For me that’s really all that matters. I know what looks best on me, and I don’t need a man to sign off on it.
I cross to the mirrors and shelf above the sinks, and look through the array of products offered for the members. I use a generous dollop of creme, and moisturize my face, neck and chest. Another creme makes my legs and arms glisten. A tiny drop of petroleum jelly on my finger coats my eyelashes and lips, highlights the top of my cheekbones. A touch of perfume on my neck and the backs of my knees to finish. Ta da.
Now for my hair. Still damp from my shower, I grab one of the blow dryers and get to work. That’s one thing I’ve been able to count on. Thirteen or thirty-six, my hair has been my friend. Somewhere in my unknown lineage, somewhere in my DNA, thick healthy chocolate colored hair was passed down.
I rake my fingers through the long strands. When I’m satisfied it’s completely dry, I just let it hang loose. I return my tote to the locker, grab my purse, and head for the elevator.
As I ride down the two floors, I check my watch. Ten minutes to three. I hope he won’t be late. One of my pet peeves is people who are chronically late. There’s no reason for that. Especially on a date. It really pisses me off. Wait, why am I working myself up? He hasn’t done anything and I’m getting mad at him. Relax, Bliss.
There’s no time to regroup before the elevator doors open. As I walk out, I see him across the lobby. Alright, prompt too. He sees me, and breaks into a glorious smile. His jeans fit him perfectly. Not too tight or loose, but close enough to his body to show the shape.
His stark white T hangs perfectly over his flat stomach, and his developed pecs and abs. One word comes to mind. Cool.
As I move toward him it seems like I’m a mile away, and my feet are made of lead. I’m hyper aware of the pull that exists between us in this moment. What the hell is happening?
