“I can be the woman you need,” she said.
“I know you can.”
“I can be more than that, too.”
“I know you can.” His lips lingered inches away from hers. “But I’m not just proposing that you and I become an item.”
Pete lowered himself down to the ground, and balanced himself on one knee. He looked up at her, and smiled with his eyes wide. Darlene was now entranced in the way the moon shone in his eyes.
“I know we rushed into things, Darlene,” Pete laughed. “I know some people would call us fools for that. But if we’re going to live this life together, I promise you that I will take care of you and love you until I die. With you by my side I feel like I can run the world. I feel like I can be the best man I can be. I want to cherish you, Darlene. I want to spend every dollar and then some on you. Hell, I’ll move to Detroit and rob every bank in the Great Lakes area with your father, if that’s what you wanted.”
Darlene’s face grew hot, even in the cool, salty air. All of a sudden she felt the moisture rising behind her eyes, and the tears welled up like raindrops falling down her cheek.
“Darlene, I know that we just met,” Pete went on, “But I would love nothing more than to take your hand in marriage. Will you marry me, Darlene?”
Pete’s words echoed in the silence of the night, and forever after in Darlene’s ears. There had been men in her life who had confessed her love to her before, but none of them like this. None them ever officially got down on one knee and proposed to her. Darlene felt like she was stuck in that continuous dream. She was nearly convinced that she was still in Detroit, fast asleep or potentially in a coma, and that this gorgeous man kneeling below, and Los Angeles, and the boat, the money, and the dead guy in her apartment—all of it was a dream. How could it be real?
But it is real, she thought. This wasn’t exactly the life she imagined, but somehow it seemed like something better. It was the perfect synthesis of her old life and her new life. She realized that Pete was still kneeling, and that all of her thinking had left him hanging.
“Yes, Pete. I’ll marry you. I’ll be the woman in your life. And I want you to be the man in my life.”
Pete stood up and looked toward his new fiancé’s beautiful, moonlit face. It took no time for their lips to find each other’s, and as Darlene opened her mouth to take in Pete’s tongue, the salt of her tears was shared between both of them. In the friction of their kiss, Darlene was blindsided by a surge of lust that came over her. Pete was now going to be her man for life. They were going to get married. The fact that he wanted her in such a way made Darlene pulsate with joy.
“I need you right now, Pete,” Darlene said. She had only been intimate with him the one time, and if that and a few days of romantic drama was enough for Pete to fall for her, then she’d have to consummate it right away. If she was going to marry this man, she needed to please him. She needed to feel him inside of her. She needed to taste him this time.
Since he had just knelt down on the one knee for her, she felt like it was her turn. With Pete standing up, it was Darlene’s turn to drop to her knees. She felt the cool wood of the boat under her knees. A wad of cash rested uncomfortably under her leg until she kicked it aside. It went overboard, and Darlene nearly choked.
“Don’t worry, baby,” Pete said. He put his hand on the back of her head. “I’m not worried about it. I’m more interested in what you’re about to do to me.”
Darlene smiled. That comment made her feel like more than the amount of money she just put into the ocean. The thought of the green paper becoming useless fled from her mind—her attention was back to Pete’s body. Reaching her hands forward she smoothed her hands along the backside of his Armani pants. Staring at where his dick rested behind the pants and underwear, Darlene sat there on her knees licking her lips. She wanted Pete to look at her. She wanted Pete to see how much she craved him in her mouth.
“I love you, Darlene,” Pete moaned.
“I love you too, baby,” Darlene said. She looked into his eyes and imagined the life of danger they would indulge in, licked her lips, and then gave him her mouth.
THE END
Bonus Story 29 of 40
Blood Moon over the Mississippi
Dead Bouquets
Violet Miller arrived in Louisiana on April 3, 1923. The train pulled into New Orleans Union Station, issuing a cloud of steam and soot as it slowed to a stop at the platform, groaning with the weight of ten cars and 800 miles of track behind it. A misty rain was falling, and the warm earth steamed up into the cool afternoon air, blurring the outlines of the city. The station master checked his pocket watch. At 4:00 sharp, the doors of the train were thrown open in unison, and a flurry of activity swarmed over the platform. Red caps and chauffeurs rushed forward to take hold of trunks and hat-boxes. Mothers and nannies grabbed hold of wayward children as they sought to slip away into the fog. Men shouted their greetings to each other. Women kissed each other’s cheeks. The din of many accents filled the air as people from every corner of the country congregated there. The train sighed and settled in place. The fireman wiped sweat and black soot from his weathered brow. Violet Miller stepped onto the platform, and smiled.
Even in the chaos of the arrival, she turned the head of every man in her vicinity. She stood poised for a moment, looking around interestedly at the goings on. Her dark chestnut bob was nearly hidden by a peacock blue cloche hat pulled down low over her deep azure eyes. She wore a grey dress that dropped just below her knees, blue shoes, and gloves to match her hat. A sable stole was draped casually over her narrow shoulders. She held a small travelling case. She was lithe and tall. The artist Miró had once said to her, over his fifth tumbler of absinthe, that she was the most perfectly proportioned woman alive. Beyond her slender form, it was her bright blue eyes, shining out from beneath thick black lashes that commanded the attention of those around her.
Her trunk emerged from the train, and immediately a young porter procured it for her.
“You lead the way,” Violet told him, her voice husky, her words carved out into harsh consonants by her New York accent. “I’m brand new here.” She offered him a smile. He tipped his hat and hurried ahead, cheeks rosy from the encounter. He hailed a black cab, and loaded her trunk inside of it. She gave him the address on Bourbon Street, and the driver whisked her away toward the French Quarter. Violet took in the city from the back of the car, gazing out the window into the rainy streets. Through the gray haze, she could make out ornate porches, and cheerfully painted buildings. Naples yellow and crimson, framed with cast iron vines. Flowers and palms spilled from window boxes and balconies. A streetcar trundled by her window. She was staying at the home of a friend from New York, a banker who had roots in Louisiana. He had warned her of the rough and tumble environment as he handed her the keys, and then he laughed, and allowed that it was probably just the kind of excitement she was looking for.
Though the rain fell harder as they drove, the streets were filled with people of all colors and origins, crisscrossing in front of them, huddled under umbrellas or the necks of their jackets. Violet smiled to herself. Soon the car pulled to a stop in front of a two story house. It was painted a deep emerald green with grey painted shutters, and the cast iron porches of each story were overflowing with spring flowers. A light hung just above the front doors, glowing warmly in the fog, beckoning Violet into her new home. As she walked up the steps, the cab-driver close behind lugging her trunk, the double doors opened, and she was greeted by a matronly woman with a friendly smile.
“Welcome, welcome, Ms. Miller. I’m Caroline…Mr. Astor has instructed me to take very good care of you. Come in, come in!” She beckoned Violet forward, shuffling around, taking her hat and her fur and instructing the driver on where to bring her luggage.
“Thank you Caroline,” Violet smiled, relieved to be rid of her belongings. She looked around the inside of her new home with great interest. She was standing in the front hallwa
y. The grey light of the day filtered in through long sheer curtains, illuminating a room decorated in the latest style. There were bits and pieces of Mr. Astor’s travels on display—an alligator head sat on a small table. Violet recognized paintings by some of their friends. A Picasso nude hung next to a Dalí sketch.
“I’ll give you the grand tour, shall I?” Caroline bustled back into the room. She was a small, round woman, with rosy cheeks, dressed in a classic grey maid’s costume with a flour-dusted apron tied about her ample waist.
“Yes, thank you,” Violet replied. “I love it already.”
Caroline lead her through the first floor. The dining room, drawing room, water closet, and through to a back garden, surrounded by high walls, and replete with a small swimming pool. They stood on the back porch for a moment as Violet took it all in. It was nothing like New York City. The colors of the rose bushes that surrounded the yard appeared brighter and more vibrant somehow. The rain had stopped now, and the clouds had begun to turn golden in the early evening.
“Can I take my supper out here?” Violet asked the maid.
“You can take your supper in the bath tub, for all I care,” she replied with a laugh. “Speaking of, you must be in quite a state after two days of travel. Why don’t I show you upstairs to your quarters?” She led the way back into the house. Violet followed her up a staircase lined with photographs of exotic places. She glimpsed the pyramids of Egypt, and a Japanese garden as she passed.
“This the guest room,” Caroline pushed open the door to their right. “And the studio, should you find any use for it.” She opened a second door. This room was unlike any other in the house. It was painted completely white. Even the wooden floor had been whitewashed. The windows were wide and exposed.
“I say, this is awfully wonderful,” Violet breathed, stepping into the room. There was a desk by the windows, and an easel stood folded in the corner. There were two shelves, each bursting with paints and pencils and chalks. “Mr. Astor is terribly thoughtful, isn’t he,” she said, turning to Caroline with a smile.
“Yes ma’am,” the woman replied. “Now if you’ll come this way, I’ll show you to your quarters.” She showed Violet to her room. It was a large room with windows on two sides. The walls were painted a deep dusky blue, and the dark mahogany bed was dressed with white linens. Before the windows, green plants, exotic ferns, and cactuses were stacked on ornate iron stands. Some hung from the ceiling, dripping with pink and white blossoms. A small white couch sat across from the bed with a matching chair. The room gave off an impression of calm. Violet was beside herself with its beauty. Everything in New York was dingy and dirty compared to the vibrancy of this place.
“And here’s your washroom,” Caroline concluded the tour. “The furnace is going, so the water’s nice and hot for you. I’ll leave you to it.”
Violet stood alone in the blue-tiled bathroom. Slowly, she turned the knobs of the deep tub, letting it fill with hot, steaming water. She sprinkled soap, and a sprig of lavender into the bath, and watched the water as it became milky with heat and the scent of flowers. She stripped off her clothing slowly. First her shoes, and then her dress. She stood for a moment in her grey chiffon teddy, before gracefully slipping off her thigh-high stockings, and letting the last of her clothing fall to the ground. She stepped into the steaming bath, and with a small sigh, sank beneath the suds.
When Violet entered the drawing room an hour later, she was refreshed and elegant in a filmy sea-foam green dress. She wore a similarly colored shawl with bright red tassels over her shoulders. It was almost seven o’clock now. The sun shimmered through the windows, and the furniture cast impossibly long shadows across the room.
“Caroline?” Violet called, gliding from the room and walking towards the back of the house. The woman emerged from the kitchen door, “I’ll spend my evening on the porch, and would you mind fixing me a mint julep?”
“Certainly,” the woman replied, disappearing into the kitchen. Prohibition was the talk of the town, but Mr. Astor’s cabinet was stocked with every manner of alcoholic delight imaginable, and Violet certainly wasn’t going to allow a silly government ruling to impact her cocktail hour. Now was the emergence of the ‘bright young things’, the rise of the bohemians and their exciting, colorful lives out of the ashes of World War I. It was as if an entire generation was attempting forget the agony of conflict.
Violet made her way to the back door. She stepped gingerly out into the evening sunset, following the flagstone path that surrounded the swimming pool through a variety of roses. Her favorites were the bushes of huge white blossoms. Their aroma was sweet and light. In the remains of the day, they appeared almost ghostly, delicate and beautiful. The birds of the garden were chirping their quiet ‘good-nights’, and Violet could hear a murmur of voices from next door. She wondered who her neighbors were, in this strange and exciting city.
Caroline called her back to the porch for her cocktail, and a delicious supper of alligator gumbo. As the sun set, Caroline lit an oil lamp and set it on the table.
“I’ll be turning in now, Ms. Violet, unless there’s something else,” Caroline said.
Violet dismissed her. She wanted to be alone—to take in her new home without interference. She sipped her mint julep and stretched her long legs out in front of her. The train ride had taken two days, from New York to Chicago, and then Chicago to New Orleans. She had hoped for some exciting company on the ride, but was disappointed by the dreariness of her fellow travelers—families and businessmen.
Violet’s life in New York was far from uninteresting. She had been a model for Vogue and Vanity Fair since her discovery by Condé Nast himself at the tender age of 14. It happened that she was working as a maid at the famous Waldorf Astoria hotel, where Mr. Nast enjoyed the occasional indiscretion. She was supposed to have been making his bed and cleaning his rooms, but had become enamored of one of the dresses that hung in the wardrobe there. She could still remember the feeling of the fabric against her skin: soft white silk that clung to her slender frame and transformed her from girl to woman. Mr. Nast had discovered her, transfixed by her own reflection. He should have been angry—furious that a lowly maid would be so bold as to fondle the garments of the rich—but instead he was delighted.
“Now aren’t you just a picture,” he had said as he stood just behind her, taking in her appearance in the mirror. Violet thought that he was going to take her—to use her misconduct as an excuse to lay hands on her and make her his own for the night—but instead, he offered her a job.
Since then she had starred in a few notable films, and become a regular at the cocktail parties of the rich and bohemian. She made fast friends with the artists that came to New York—a rotating cast of surrealists and cubists and every type of artist under the sun stayed at her park-side apartment. She loved the excitement of Midtown, the grime and naughtiness of Downtown, and the perfect beauty of Central Park, but the time had come for a break from the constant chaos of the Big Apple. New York City was like a martini. Delicious down to the last drop the first hundred times, but bitter and sickening after the 101th glass. Violet had reached the bottom of her glass, and she was ready for something else. She was ready for the smoky sweetness of bourbon—for dark spiced rum and cocktails that were slow to mix and easy to drink. She needed a slower pace and a sliver of solitude.
Violet rose gracefully and retreated to the house to mix herself another mint julep. It was quiet and dark. A soft breeze blew through the front windows and dispelled the humidity of the day. Only the sounds of ice tinkling cheerfully against her glass and the soft click of her heels on the wood floor could be heard as she made her way through to the garden. Just as she stepped out of the house into the ring of golden light cast by her oil lamp, she heard a loud SPLASH. She froze in place. The night had fallen velvety and inky black over the cityscape, and it was difficult to see beyond the edge of the porch. She stood completely still, her cocktail glass sweating in her hand. The sound of co
ntinuous splashing told her that whoever, or whatever it was, was still there, flailing about in her swimming pool.
“Hello?” she ventured, carefully setting her cocktail on the table, and reaching fearlessly for the lamp. A moment later, however, there was the sound of a body emerging from water, and the slapping of wet bare feet on the flagstones of the garden. She waited tensely as they came closer, her heart beating hard against her ribs.
“Why hello there,” came a low and laughing voice from the shadows. Into the ring of light stepped a young man wearing nothing but a sleeveless union suit of white silk. Water was still streaming from his slender yet muscular arms and legs. His undergarment was soaking and almost completely translucent. It clung to his body. Violet was at once amused and excited to note that she could take in every detail of his physique, even the rather impressive outline between his legs. After this brief appraisal, she fixed her blue eyes determinedly on his face. He was staggeringly handsome, with a strong jaw and high cheekbones. His dark hair was slicked back. He was clean-shaven, and looked to be about twenty-five years old.
Violet sat down in her wicker chair, and sipped her cocktail with an air of casual hospitality. “And what brings you to my back yard, Mr. …?”
The man rested his foot casually on the bottom step of the porch and ran a pale hand through his sodden hair. “Anri, that’s spelled like ‘Henry’, mind…Lucas Henry.” he began, wringing out the legs of his underwear without much concern for the fact that he was basically naked in front of a woman he had never met. “Well, Miss, I was just strolling through the neighborhood, and thought I’d show some appreciation for your beautiful swimming hole, here.” He had a funny, lilting accent. It reminded her of Paris, the way his words curled under each other, like delicate flowers floating on top of a deep Southern drawl.
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