Illusions Complete Series (Illusions Series Volumes 1-3)

by Annie Jocoby

  He stood up when he saw me, a broad smile on his face.

  Now I was shaking. Not sure why I was having this reaction now. In my office, I felt much more comfortable. Maybe because it was my home turf. But here, in the bar, I felt intimidated by him.

  I would have to resist the urge to drink tonight. Alcohol was always my crutch in awkward social situations. Or any social situations. As I said before, you wouldn't know it, but I was quite shy. Or insecure at least.

  He met me halfway, and gave me a big hug. His body was warm and incredibly hard. He must have lived at the gym. I could hear his heart pounding as my head lay against his chest.

  We sat down, and he ordered for us – a Dewar’s and water for him, a Grey Goose dirty martini for me.

  So much for my vow not to drink tonight.

  Well, maybe I will only have a few.

  The drinks came shortly, and I knew that I had to get the name issue out of the way.

  “So,” I began.

  “Sorry, before you say anything, I just wanted to tell you that you look beautiful.”

  I momentarily forgot my words. I pondered anew the possibility that I was on Punk'd, then just managed to say “thank you.”

  “Now, you were saying,” he said, looking at me with a soft expression.

  I took a deep breath. “This is the most embarrassing thing I have ever had to admit. But I, well, you know, I had a lot to drink the other night and-”

  “Ryan. My name is Ryan.” He was still smiling, and his eyes told me that he thought it was humorous that I forgot his name.

  I could feel my face flushing. “How did you know what I was going to ask?”

  He shrugged. “I figured that if you didn't remember me at all when I came into your office, it stands to reason that you didn't remember my name, either.”

  “About that. I hope you don't think that I make a habit of going home with men from a bar.”

  “Damn. I was hoping I could get you hammered again and get you to pick up a girl here at the bar and do a three-way,” he said with a smile.

  I laughed at that. “Sorry to burst your bubble,” I said.

  “Well, I understand you're embarrassed. But don't be. It was uh, fun.”

  Fun. I wished I could’ve remembered.

  “Anyhow, I could say the same. I hope you don't think that I'm some kind of manwhore.”

  “No, no, I don't think that at all.” I paused, tucking my hair behind my ear, and taking a sip of my drink. It was salty and slightly sour. As I picked one of the olives from the little red toothpick to put in my mouth, I saw Ryan watching me interestedly. “I, uh, also wanted to apologize for just, you know, leaving in the morning.”

  “Yeah, I was disappointed. I wanted to take you for breakfast.”

  “I was totally embarrassed for being there. It was kinda shitty of me to do that, though.”

  “Well, I was really glad that you gave me one of your business cards at the bar. Otherwise, I was going to have to do some serious research to find you.” He took a sip of his Scotch rocks. “And I would've tried to find you, make no mistake about that.”

  Wow. I must've been really charming the other night. Or really “fun.”

  He was smiling. “So, I know we're doing this backwards, but we need to get to know each other.”

  I couldn't remember what all I told him, so I didn't know if he knew the basics about me. This was so awkward, not knowing if what I might tell him would be something he had already heard.

  “So, what do you know about me?” I asked him.

  “That you are an attorney who aspires to do something else. Maybe be a writer or an animal rights activist. Or the leader of a new Occupy movement with teeth. You want to eradicate all big money from politics, and liberate every factory farm animal on the face of the earth. That you have gorgeous red hair.” Ryan crunched on some ice thoughtfully, then shook his now-empty glass and looked around for the waitress. She was there in a flash to take our next order. Then he continued. “And you think that The Importance of Being Earnest was the funniest story you've ever read.”

  “Wow. I really was spouting off, wasn't I?” I knew that I tended not to have a filter when I was drinking, but still couldn't believe that I told this guy my life story in one sitting. And, of course, I was a hypocrite, because, while I am a deep animal lover, I ate chicken and fish.

  “No, not spouting off. You just came off as....passionate. You think about the world, even though you know that you can do little about it. That's refreshing. You’re like a realistic idealist.” He picked up a bar napkin, then laid it down and started doodling on it. The guy was quite an artist. Not looking up, he proceeded. “And the fact that you said that an Oscar Wilde play is one of your favorites really drew me to you. Because he is one of my favorite playwrights too.”

  I blinked my eyes, not quite grasping what was going on. It all seemed surreal. As surreal as the drawing on the napkin was turning out. After it was done, he handed it to me with a smile. “For you,” he said.

  The drawing was a like a miniature Dali painting, with little melting hearts into finger tips and a single eye hovering above. It was charming, and I couldn't believe he put it together so quickly.

  “Impressive,” I began. “So, let me guess. You're a graphic artist?”

  He shook his head. “Bank president.”

  “Ah. Should've known.”

  “Why is that?”

  “You looked like a bank president the other day. All suited up.”

  He stirred his drink, squeezing his lime into it. His eyes didn't meet mine.

  I instinctively knew something was wrong, so I asked him.

  “Nothing's wrong. I just like you, that's all.”

  “I like you too,” I said. But why did he seem to not want to talk to me about himself?

  Then he asked, out of the blue “Do you like to mountain bike?

  “I've never been, to be honest.”

  “Would you like to try? I know some great trails here in town.”

  “Well, I, uh, don’t really have a bike for that. I mean, I have a road bike, and I used to like to do that, but I haven’t lately. As you can probably tell.”

  He ignored that last comment. “I have a bike you can borrow, if you like. But only if you want to go.” He had the puppy-dog expression again.

  I took a deep breath, not really knowing what I was getting into. “Ok, sure. When would you like to go?”

  “Uh, what are you doing tomorrow morning?”

  “No special plans, actually.”

  “Pick you up at 8?”

  “Sure.”

  I was starting to feel the dirty martinis working on me. I looked at this martini, my second, and made a mental note to stop. I wasn't going to get liquored up again - the guy might think that I have a drinking problem. Plus, I didn't want to sleep with him that night. It had been my experience that a relationship that started with sex ends up being a relationship that was all about sex, and I wanted to really get to know him before hitting the sack with him again. As I said, I was an old-fashioned girl at heart.

  At least I am when I am sober.

  Our conversation continued from there, for the rest of the evening, and continued when we left the bar to go to dinner at a steakhouse. Natural, flowing, easy, never an awkward moment of silence. It was as if we were childhood friends who grew up together and knew every intimate detail about one another. We were finishing each other’s sentences by the end of the evening.

  But, as we talked, I casually looked around the restaurant. As I did, I noticed quite a few people staring at Ryan. Not just women, but men, too. Even the ones you would never suspect. And I immediately felt self-conscious. I mean, I guess I am somewhat cute, but this guy was magnetic, and everybody in the bar knew it. All the dirty martinis in the world wouldn't erase the self-doubt that was creeping into my brain with every lustful glance I saw from the patrons at the bar.

  With a sinking heart, I knew that I would have to cut i
t short before I became too involved with a guy who was stratospheres out of my league.

  My hand shaking, I began “Ryan, this has been an amazing evening. But I don't think-”

  I never finished my sentence, because he was over on my side of the table in a flash. He put his hand in my hair and gave me a soft kiss. With tongue. Electricity shot through my body and I realized that I was no longer breathing. My heart stopped for a brief second, and I was trembling more than ever. He looked into my eyes with his penetrating green eyes with long, dark lashes.

  “Iris, please. I can tell that you feel that I am better than you, but I don’t want you to think that. I like you. I really like you. I want to spend more time with you.”

  I wasn’t really hearing him. His kiss had stunned me, had made the rest of the world stop. I could hear my heartbeat, and my breathing, but could hear little else. I realized that I continued just to stare at him. He was still kneeling in front of me, his eyes pleading a little. I could also see desire in his eyes.

  “I….” There were no other words. I blinked rapidly, coming out of my brief catatonia.

  He was finally standing up, his hand out. I stood up too, and he grabbed my hand and smiled.

  I still couldn’t speak.

  “I paid the bill. Let’s go get my car, and I’ll drive you to yours.”

  I dazedly followed. He opened the door, and the night air brought me a little bit more to my senses. It was still over 90 degrees, even though it was 11:30. He held my hand as we walked down the street. I could still feel my hand trembling a little. My legs felt like spaghetti.

  He was talking. “Now, with mountain biking, you just have to feel like you are in control. You have to make the bike and the trails your bitch. That's the secret. Don’t worry, you'll get the hang of it. We'll begin you on the slightest grade of trail, although you'll soon get bored with that, and want to graduate to a bigger trail. But I don’t want to rush you.”

  I must've had a look of horror on my face when he said that, because he hurriedly added “but only if you feel comfortable.”

  God, I feel dumb. Why couldn’t I talk?

  We were soon at his car, and I felt even more intimidated. The guy had a brand new Porsche 911. What the hell is he doing with me?

  He opened the car door. As I started to get into the door, he put his hands on my shoulders. Then he put one hand in my hair as he leaned to kiss me again. His tongue was slowly exploring inside my mouth. I was aware that I wasn’t breathing again. I was also aware of his heartbeat, which was surprisingly loud. The kiss was longer and deeper than the one in the restaurant. The jolt of electricity that I felt during the first kiss was stronger now, coursing completely through my body. My heart was beating fast and hard. His kiss remained soft, his lips feathering on mine, his tongue lightly gliding just inside my mouth.

  He was an amazing kisser.

  After what seemed like an eternity, he broke away. I looked up, and he was looking down at me, smiling, his hand still in my hair. I was aware that his other hand was around my waist gently. My breath caught. I was still shaking. Smiling, he gestured for me to get into the car. I stumbled into the front seat, my legs giving way beneath me. I was vaguely aware that he was fastening my seatbelt, then getting into the driver’s seat next to me. Once he got into the driver’s seat, he leaned over and kissed me again, feathery, light. Then we were off.

  We drove in silence to my car, which was a beat-up 15-year-old RAV4 named Priscilla, because she was purple. I still didn't have words, and he was probably tired of trying to fill the silence. But, at every stop light, he would gently take his hand off the steering wheel, and place it in my hair, gently running his hands through my mane, and sometimes stroking my cheek.

  We finally arrived at the battered car, but I somehow didn’t feel embarrassed about it. And it wasn’t until I arrived home that night, after driving home with the radio on, feeling that every love song was written especially for me, that I came down to earth. He had kissed me again before I got into my car. His kisses were tender, sweet. He was very respectful, keeping his hands around my waist and in my hair. That kiss at my car lasted awhile.

  I wanted it to last forever.

  However, getting home somewhat brought me back down. Madison, my kitty cat, gave me her usual greeting when I came in the door, which was pawing the cork disk on the floor while mewing. I looked around the apartment. It wasn’t a bad apartment, really, just quite small. I had painted the walls a dark shade of green in the living room (there wasn’t a dining room), and the bedroom was painted a dark shade of rose. Above the fireplace was an enormous Andy Warhol print of Jacqueline Kennedy. I wasn't really a fan of either Warhol or Jackie Kennedy, but, for some reason, that particular picture drew me in, and I had to have it.

  My bed was strewn with clothes, both dirty and clean, and I really didn’t feel like throwing the clothes on the floor so that I could sleep. So, I plopped on the couch and thought about the night. Was I dreaming it all?

  Then, just before I was about to fall asleep, the phone rang. It was him. “I just wanted to call and wish you a good night.”

  “Yes, thank you for tonight,” was all I could manage to say.

  “Iris?”

  “Yes?”

  “I think I might be falling in love with you.”

  I didn’t even run my negative loop in my head - too soon, don’t be crazy, he just wants to get you into bed again. “Um, yes, I’ll see you tomorrow,” I managed to mumble, stunned once again.

  “Tomorrow. Remember, the bike is your bitch.”

  I laughed. “Yes, my bitch.”

  “Good night beautiful.”

  “’Night.” We hung up, and I drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter Four

  Ryan arrived at my apartment at 8 AM, just like he said. I had come down a little since the previous evening, but I couldn’t bring myself to clean up the apartment. I was too wired.

  And, oh, God, I didn’t have biking shorts! I couldn’t possibly bike without biking shorts!

  He was knocking at the door. I shut my bedroom door (my clothes were still all over the bed). At this point, I had to find my keys, as they went missing sometime during the night, and my cell phone, which went missing somewhere else during the night. I tore around the apartment, lifting up magazines and newspapers, throwing everything out of drawers, tossing the couch cushions, over and over again. Somehow, I kept looking in the exact same places about 20 times, as if they would somehow magically appear in these places, when they clearly were not there before.

  “Just a second!” I called. Shit, where are these goddamned things? I opened up the refrigerator, and there were my keys. Go figure. Which gave me an idea – I climbed up on the counter to look on top of the fridge, and my cell phone was there. Bizarre. I got the idea to look on top of the fridge because it occurred to me that I might have put the cell phone up there, because years ago I put a pair of glasses on top of the fridge. Of course, I was drunk at the time. But, last night, I was drunker than I had ever been. Not literally, just high from the evening.

  I opened the door, breathless. “Gosh, I am so sorry. I overslept. Um, I can’t go.”

  He looked perplexed. “How come?”

  “I wasn’t thinking last night. I don’t have a pair of biking shorts.”

  “Ah, well, you aren’t getting out of this so easily, my friend.” He was smiling impishly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I picked up a pair of biking shorts for you.”

  “This morning? Already?”

  “Yeah. Dick’s is open early.”

  I wasn’t aware of this. Somehow, I was suspicious that he got the shorts yesterday afternoon. Presumptuous. Or, god forbid, he bought them for somebody else. Whatever.

  “Huh. What's the real story?”

  “You caught me. Actually, I have a friend who knows the owner of Dick’s. I called in a favor, and asked him if he would let me shop early this morning, before the store opened.�
��

  I was impressed.

  “Just a sec, let me bring them up and make sure that they fit.” And he was gone.

  In about a minute, he was back, shorts in one hand, his other hand behind his back.

  “Here, try these on.”

  “Ok, but you can’t come in.” He can’t possibly be ready for cyclone alley, as my mother would say.

  He looked perplexed. I suddenly realized that I was supposed to notice his hand behind his back and ask him about this. “Whatcha got there behind your back?”

  His impish smile was back. “Well, this is a cliché, but I am very much a romantic.” And he then produced a dozen red roses from behind his back.

  I was shaking again. Just when I was starting to regain my composure around this guy, and he produces roses. I honestly couldn’t remember the last time I received flowers of any kind from anybody. “Oh, these are beautiful. Let me find a vase to put them in. Wait there, though.” Why, why, why didn’t I clean up the apartment before he got here? What is wrong with me? He probably thinks I am the world’s rudest person.

  I dashed into the apartment. No vase. I hauled out an empty wine bottle from the trash can, smashed the top of the bottle, filled it with water, and put the roses in that. That will have to do for now. Must remember to buy a vase. Then I had to sweep the galley kitchen floor, because I was liable to step on glass with my bare feet, and Madison might get glass in her delicate paws. “Sweet kitty,” I said, picking her up, getting momentarily distracted. She purred loudly in my ear.

  Next order of business was putting on the shorts. They fit perfectly. I threw on a t-shirt, then realized that Ryan’s bike probably had clip pedals. Luckily, I had an old pair of clip shoes and threw them on. However, I couldn’t find my helmet.

  On my way out the door, I grabbed a Slim Fast shake, shook it up, and downed it. That’s all you are going to have until lunch time.