Midlife Crisis: another romance for the over 40: (Silver Fox Former Rock Star)

by L. B. Dunbar

  “I could make you feel good in other ways.” The suggestion causes me to stiffen, and he chuckles. “Relax, lady.” His raspy voice right at my ear sends shivers skittering over my skin. With a boldness I’ve never felt before, I speak.

  “How?”

  “How to relax or how to feel good?” His eyes meet mine in the mirror. There’s a mischief to the color I know is gray but sparkles like steel in the reflection.

  “Wouldn’t they be one and the same?” His lip crooks in the corner at my question. His eyes twinkle with mirth, and he chuckles, lazy and low, causing my skin to goose bump. With his hands stroking my shoulders, the white peasant blouse I wear stretches, slipping off over the curves.

  “Hmm…” He moans as thick fingertips rub my cool skin. “I think I’d start with a nip to this neck.” I watch the roll of his Adam’s apple, and my throat clogs. My mouth waters. “I’d suck right here.” He presses into the apex of my shoulder and neck with the tip of a callused finger. I imagine the deep suction on my sweet spot, and my knees buckle. My lids flutter closed a moment. Another gravelly guffaw sounds by my ear, and I open my eyes to find him watching me in the mirror.

  “I think next I’d go for a breast. Lick around your nipple before tugging at the tip.”

  Holy. Shit. I’m instantly wet, and my thighs clench. He’s observant, so he doesn’t miss the squeeze of my legs. His hands drift from my shoulders to my hips, and ever so gently, he tugs me back against him. With one slow pump, the unmistakably firm length of him hits my lower back.

  “You’re a tiny thing.” He huffs, spreading his fingers and then tightening them on my hips. “But I’d still fit.” The thought brings up my head, my eyes searching for his again in the reflective glass; only he’s looking down, over my shoulder, focusing on the swell of my breasts peeking out of my bra. I didn’t realize my shirt slid down so far.

  “I’d definitely need a taste between those thighs.” A rush of liquid leaves me as a flock of seagulls ripple up my abdomen. If words could cause an orgasm, I’m certain he could give me one. The smoky tone. The brash intention. The silver stare reflected in the mirror. “You like the thought.”

  It isn’t a question. He’s reading me, and he’s right. If he put his scruff between my thighs, I’d come in an instant. The image makes me rub my legs together once more, and I reach for the countertop, needing stability before I purposely lean into him again.

  “I’ve never done this before,” I whisper, uncertain what I’m admitting, and what I’m suggesting. He’s a stranger to me, but do I want him to take me against the counter? Hell yes, I do. Do I think I could follow through on the actual act? Actually no, I don’t.

  “I’m here for you,” he groans, pressing into me again. Our heights don’t lend to aligning body parts, but I’m well aware of what he packs in those jeans, and he can’t miss the subtle squirm of my thighs.

  “Mmm, Hank,” I purr. “Yes.” The word escapes, the hiss lingering as my sex pulses. My hips roll back. My backside hits him. “I think I’m—”

  “About to come, baby? Let me get you there.” Can you orgasm from the sound of a voice? Who am I kidding? Just listen to Jamie Dornan or Sam Heughan—an accent does it all the time. I won’t admit I am close, but the tenor of his tone…

  A sharp pounding on the door startles me, and I stiffen.

  “Hanky, you in there still?” The singsong squeal of a female spins my head back to focus on his face in the mirror. For some reason, tears instantly prickle my eyes.

  “Oh, God,” I whimper, horrified at what I was doing, at what I’d almost done, with a perfect stranger. Pushing back on the counter, I press into him, forcing him away from me. His touch lingers as I reach for the doorknob, shoving open the door and rushing past a woman I hardly see. Riled up and embarrassed, I race for an exit and an end to my evening.

  2

  Eyes in the mirror

  [Hank]

  “What the fuck did you do?” The sharp Southern drawl of my old friend catches me as I stumble from the bathroom and into the hallway. “Did you just get it on in my bathroom?”

  Almost nearly escapes my mouth, but instead, I say, “I didn’t do anything.” Watching a woman exit the hallway behind me, Tommy Carrigan’s brow rises. He doesn’t seem to recognize the lady.

  “Man, I see some things never change,” he mutters. I sense a chuckle in his tease, but there’s also a sadness. He doesn’t know I’ve changed. Old memories haunt us both, and he’s correct. It would be sad if I had taken a girl in a bathroom at a party, only I didn’t take that girl. The one I wanted ran away from me.

  “Some things completely change,” I defend, not offering any other information. I search the room but don’t find her. Midge. There was something in her eyes. I can’t place it but I want to know more about her.

  “Oh, man.” He pauses, scanning the room after me. “I recognize the expression on your face. You’re a goner.” Tommy snorts.

  “Nope, she is,” I mutter. I don’t see Midge anywhere, and I sigh in defeat. Coming to this party was a mistake. When the invitation found me, I couldn’t believe it because I hadn’t seen Tommy in years—almost nine actually. The death of his sister was the end of everything. An even greater shock was finding out Tommy got married.

  “So, you’re hitched?” I muse, hoping to deflect the conversation.

  “Proudly,” he states, standing taller, his barrel chest rising.

  “She’s a pretty thing,” I admit. His wife is our age, in her forties, and she’s adorable with short styled hair and bright blue eyes.

  “She’s all mine,” Tommy clarifies, and I huff at the hint.

  “I don’t doubt it.” Tommy’s not really a domineering man, but he’s loyal and protective of those closest to him. No one understands this better than I do. Friends for nearly twenty years, I was around the Carrigan siblings for a long time before everything fell apart. The thought brings a peek of memories long since told to disappear.

  “Want to explain why my wife’s new friend just rushed out of here?”

  “Nope.” I can’t because I don’t understand what happened. One minute, I was trying to get away from the old groupie, and the next, I’m outlining the curves of a little body in the darkness of the bathroom. Her eyes pinned me in place the second she looked up at me. Mesmerized by the swirling combination of gold and rich dirt with a hint of sorrow mixed in, I couldn’t let her leave. Thank goodness my bulk accidentally trapped her against the sink. The space was compact but not so tight she couldn’t escape, had I let her. Then the way she responded to me, to just my voice. I never had the power to sing, but I would have sung songs for her just to watch those eyes flutter with pleasure, and she was almost there. Damn groupie. “How’d Stephie get in here?”

  “Stephie’s here?” Tommy whistles, looking around me as if he hadn’t seen her. The woman hadn’t given up after all these years, still hoping to latch onto a rock star although most of us are has-beens at this point. Tommy smiles a second, and then his face drops at the reality. “Fuck, Stephie’s here. I gotta get her out of here.”

  “You doing something you shouldn’t be?” I bark. I instantly liked Tommy’s wife, so the fact Tommy might be stepping out on her has me all kinds of bristly.

  “Are you fucking kidding me? Did you see my wife? My wife,” he emphasizes. “I wouldn’t let her go for anything.” For a man who avoided marriage most of his life, I’m shocked at the instant loyalty he has to one lady. Then I remember his sister. They had a rare closeness. Best of friends. He knew how to protect a woman.

  “Good to hear,” I confirm, thankful he has priorities. On that note, his wife enters the hallway.

  “What happened?” she asks her husband.

  “Whatcha mean, darlin’?”

  “One minute, she’s drinking wine and enjoying herself, and the next, she can’t wait to leave. I don’t understand.” Edie looks crushed at the disappearance of her friend, and a touch of guilt pinches me.

 
“Your friend? What was her name?” I snap my fingers like I’m trying to remember.

  “Midge Everette. I just met her, but we are like insta-friends. I don’t know what upset her.” Her brows pinch with concern and I nod in agreement as if I understand what she means by insta-friends. Women, huh? “And you know her how?”

  I’m hoping she throws me a bone because I’m thinking I need to see Midge again. If nothing else, I need to apologize, and I never say I’m sorry. At one time, all I did was apologize, but it never got me anywhere.

  “She’s working the 5K fundraiser for the music school.” I have no idea what this means, and I’m tapping my chin, working up to another question when Tommy’s eyes narrow on me.

  “Some things never change,” he repeats, muttering as he rubs a hand up his wife’s back. Little does he know, everything has changed for me.

  3

  It always starts with burnt toast

  [Hank]

  “I burned the toast.” The hysterical female voice drowns the line with her sobs after this statement.

  “Ma’am, this is the Central Valley Crisis Hotline.” I pause. “What seems to be your issue?”

  Through hiccups and sniffles, I hear her blow out her breath. “I burned the toast.” A sniffling snuffle ripples through the phone, and I hold the device away from my ear for a second. She’s a hot mess of tears and hacked crying.

  “Want to tell me what happened?” I’ve worked at Central Crisis for more than four years. After serving my time in a mandatory service program, I volunteered to stay on to help people, thinking I could make a difference to someone. The thought saddens me for the briefest moment before I return to the woman at hand. Crying over burnt toast stems from something deeper, and my job on the hotline involves getting to the root of such things.

  “I’m at the end of my rope.”

  “You don’t sound like you’re at the end.” She doesn’t actually. Something about her voice sounds familiar and a touch more confident than a woman frazzled by life. Typical callers to the center include punk kids wanting out of school. Sometimes a veteran who needs more than the crisis hotline offers. An occasional druggie who is beyond help. Those calls leave me feeling hopeless. It’s easier to connect with people when I can see them, place a hand on their knee, and assure them there are other avenues in life. Manning the phone lines is the worst part of volunteering for me, but I made a promise to myself—help those in need—because I was once one of them. Volunteers each take a night or two a month, and tonight is mine.

  “You don’t know me. How can you say that?” She’s right—I don’t know her—but between the familiarity in her voice and a kindred knowledge of what the end of a rope feels like, I have a good idea of how she’s feeling. Despair. Desperation. Downtrodden.

  “Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself? Tell me about your day.” It helps to be pleasant, encouraging, and for some reason, I want this voice to keep talking to me. It’s the hint of recognition. I need more.

  “My d-day?” she stutters. “No one asks about my day.”

  Ah. Piece number one.

  “Well, I’m asking. Tell me. How was your day?” My lip curls as I realize I kind of do want to know about her day.

  “My children forgot.”

  “Forgot what?”

  “One son needs a suit for the spring dance.” She deflects as if she didn’t hear my question. “Another needs some last-minute Hawaiian t-shirt for a concert. And my youngest. He’s just lost, not certain who he wants to be, even though I keep telling him to be himself. Being ten is difficult.”

  I sigh, nodding my head. Picking up a pen, I start to doodle on the desk pad calendar. My designs add to those already scribbled here. I wish I was a sketch artist. I’d be able to capture her eyes. Not the woman on the phone—I can’t see this lady—but the eyes that stared back at me a few weeks ago. The ones in the mirror, dancing in the candlelight as I stood behind her.

  “And I don’t know how I got talked into hosting this event. Although, actually, I do because I can never say no. No. How hard can it be?”

  She takes a deep breath, pausing. I imagine the tears have dried, and she’s working up the steam for annoyance before the anger strikes. I’ve seen this in many women. Especially the ones who expect something of me after I’ve given it to them. Given them me. They want to fuck the infamous Hank Paige. I’m not always going to complain but don’t expect anything from me afterward. I gave my heart once, and it was the biggest mistake of my life.

  “Honestly, how hard?” Yep, annoyance to anger in sixty seconds. I don’t have to see this lady to envision her shifting expression. Her question snaps me back to the conversation but she plows on in her growing irritation.

  “I said no a few weeks ago. It was the only time I wanted to say yes.” Her voice lowers on the second statement, a dip in the octave as it grows huskier.

  This stops my scribbles on the pad.

  Piece number two, possibly.

  “What did you say no to when you wanted to say yes?”

  “Him.” She sighs—breathy, deep, wanting—and something stirs in me that shouldn’t on these types of calls. “I’m divorced, and there was this man,” she clarifies. “It’s been a long time since someone looked at me like that, you know. But then again, I don’t suppose he was really looking at me.”

  This has me sitting upright, stretching my back with a twist as I sit in this too-small rolling seat. I’m a larger man, and this donated piece of shit chair can hardly hold me. I should do something about it, but I promised myself I wouldn’t throw money at this place. It needs my time, not the green stuff.

  “Tell me about the man,” I prompt. It’s part of our training. Keep ’em talking. Though, I admit, I’m curious.

  She sighs again, and for a moment, I imagine a dreamy gleam in her eye. Maybe a sparkle of desire. A hint of unbridled passion. A need for someone to take the lead. The thought circles around to the eyes haunting my dreams every night; the ones from the mirror, reflecting back at me as I tell her what I’d like to do to her and the ways I want to pleasure her.

  “He was so different.” It’s as if she’s stolen the words from my mouth. The woman was different. I felt it in the way she leaned against me. The way she said my name; as if it was an ordinary name and not a symbol of who I once was. The way she looked at me. She wanted me.

  “He touched me.” A nervous huff fills the phone. “Not in an inappropriate way, but in a way…his touch still lingers on me.” She giggles. “It’s hard to explain.”

  “Try.” My throat clogs, and a croak mixes with the typical smoky sound of my voice. I swallow, wondering when her tone softened and took on a purring lilt. When did this call to a crisis line turn into phone sex for me?

  “I’ve never done this before.” A sultry dip in her tenor has my brows pinching. I’ve heard this statement before, like déjà vu knocking for me to remember. The familiarity of her voice ratchets up a notch or two, and recognition seems just a whisper away.

  “Done what?” Something in my chest pinches.

  “Called into a crisis center. You must think I’m crazy.” Her voice returns to a more even tone, and I’ve lost the connection. I blink, aware I was searching for something, hoping, at least.

  “No, I don’t.” I mean what I said. I honestly don’t think people who call in are mentally imbalanced. It’s a cry for help, and it’s what I want to do—help. “Tell me more about the man.”

  “He didn’t do anything. But it’s what he said he wanted to do. And then I told him no.”

  I swallow. “Why?”

  “Because I’m stupid.”

  “Don’t say such things about yourself.”

  She exhales sharply. “What woman—who hasn’t been touched in ages—denies a man who wants to touch her? I mean, maybe it wouldn’t have meant anything to him, but it doesn’t have to, right? It could have just been sex. It could have been for one night, right?” She sighs. “Why can’t I have a one-ni
ght stand? Just let loose. What’s wrong with me? Why couldn’t I say yes to something I wanted instead of telling him no?”

  I don’t really have an answer here, and my job isn’t to dispense advice. I just listen. We’ve come a long way from the burnt toast, so maybe we are getting somewhere.

  “Why did you tell him no?”

  “Because I’m old.”

  I bite my lip, trying not to chuckle. Her voice doesn’t resonate anywhere near an advanced age, but voices can be deceiving. My lip slides free of my teeth, and I ask, “How old are you?” It’s not really proper to ask these things. No identifiers of any type allowed. Pure anonymity.

  “I’m forty-one. Today.”

  Ahhhh. Here we have it.

  “Happy Birthday.”

  “I wish I was happy. I mean, I should be, right? I have a decent job. I have a roof over my head. I have three amazing boys.” I hear her pride in the last remark. She’s a good mother.

  “But you want a little more,” I offer, sitting back in the swivel chair. I don’t know where the words come from, and I shouldn’t be prompting her like this. Yet somehow, I know the feeling. I’m still waiting for something more myself.

  “Yes.” She sighs. I bounce back and then sweep forward, sensing I’m about to tumble from the seat at the purr in the word. The hint of recognition rings again.

  “Excuse me.” I’m a musician at heart. Sound is my trade. I remember rhythms and beats, and the linger in her -s reminds me of something, someone.

  “Excuse me?” she repeats as if she misunderstood me.

  “I’m sorry. Could you repeat…” I swallow. This is so unethical. “Could you say yes like you just did?” I pause another beat. “I mean, didn’t it feel good to say yes?” There. Nothing wrong with prompting her in a positive way. Nothing suspicious here.

  “Yes.” Huh? I fall back in the seat. The answer is too sharp, too direct. I must have misinterpreted her, and I shake my head, telling myself I’m an idiot. I’m imagining the lingering lilt to be what I want it to be—the desperate plea in her voice, my pretty eyed lady—but it isn’t her.