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

by L. B. Dunbar

  “She’s dead.” Just when I thought I couldn’t feel any sicker, my heart falls to my feet, leaving me empty inside.

  “Hank, I’m so—”

  “Don’t say sorry. Please.” He pulls back on my wrists, and I let him break our connection. “I’m sorry she’s dead, too. I am, but I’m not sorry we are over. It had to end. She…” He pauses, and the words hesitate. He won’t bring himself to share this with me, so I speak instead.

  “I wasn’t embarrassed. Humiliated that my son caught me after having sex with a man not his father? Yes. But not ashamed.” I bend to lower my head under his, forcing him to look at me. “Not ashamed, Hank. Please, don’t ruin it for me. The other night meant too much to me.” I take a deep breath, risking more of myself. “I’m upset, too. I know it wasn’t Elston’s fault directly, but I feel like he ruined something. But I have to say, Hank, if you can’t handle my children, then you can’t handle me. We come as one package.”

  His head shoots up, and I pull back, startled by his sudden movement. His hands grip my cheeks again.

  “You are a gift, Middy. Wrapped up so pretty in these tight ass jeans where I can see your knees, and I just want to kiss you everywhere.” My face heats. “I ruined the night. Me. Let me make it up to you.”

  Laying me out on this desk might be a start, but I don’t say that. Hank tips his head.

  “Does your son know anything about me?” Curiosity and hope line his face. I can’t tell him the lie I told my son. After Hank left, making enough noise to wake the neighbors, Elston came to my room, inquiring about the slamming sound.

  “I dropped something,” I told him, but as long as he was in my room, a question left my lips. “Can I ask you something? What would you think of me dating?”

  “Cool.” He returned to his room. Conversation over.

  “I think I have his permission to date. Do I need my kid’s permission?” I pause. I know all the answers. In reality, I don’t—I’m the adult. But I want his approval; I want all their approvals. Paul’s already done enough damage, though Lord knows, they’ll blame most things on me. “What should I tell my son about you?”

  “I think you can do whatever you please, little lady, but you tell your son you’re dating. Only me.”

  The possessive comment makes me blush. Looking down at the mechanic overalls covering his big body, my palms roam the length of his chest.

  “I should have kept your shirt. I wanted to wear it.”

  “Want to see you wearing my things, Middy.” My eyes jump back to his. His eyes restored to playfulness despite the cold color.

  “Then how about dinner tonight at my place?”

  13

  Spoiled dinner

  [Midge]

  I’m nervous. I’m not a great cook, and it’s been a long time since I’ve cooked to impress, so this already spells disaster. My house specialty is spaghetti, but that’s not a second date meal—slurping up pasta or splattering tomato sauce. With my luck, dinner would end up on my boobs.

  With Hank being a bigger man, I settle on steak. The late March weather of California is pleasant enough for the Midwestern bones of my body to step outside and grill. I still laugh when people call sixty degrees cold. Zero is cold. Sixty is shorts weather, but I acclimated to the West Coast pretty quickly as I love warmer temperatures. I miss the Midwest at the holidays, but we go back each Christmas. I wasn’t aware Elston missed it so much.

  Thoughts of him fill my mind as I fork the potatoes for baking. He’d been ten, almost eleven when we left Illinois. He’ll adapt; kids do, my former mother-in-law told me. He did adapt, into what Paul wanted—a high school football star. The pressure on Elston from his father remains intense despite not living with him. Paul doesn’t miss a practice, a game, a meeting. He hovers, and he’s choking our son. We’ve talked about this, but Paul doesn’t like to listen to me.

  “Let him make his own mistakes.”

  “He’s a kid. I want to help him,” Paul argues.

  “Love him then, don’t smother him.”

  “I’m not smothering. I’m guiding.”

  The argument remains the same for Liam, our budding baseball athlete. However, for Ronin, Paul takes a passive seat. He attends what he can, claiming attendance at the football games counts for Ronin as he’s in the band on the sidelines. Unfortunately, Paul often misses halftimes, trying to weasel his way into discussions with Elston. Thankfully, the varsity coach doesn’t allow this as much as the junior varsity coach let it slide. This reminds me Ronin has a play in two weeks. He earned the role of Marius, one of the rebels in the French Revolution for Les Misérables. I wonder if Paul will attend. Maybe I should ask Hank?

  I didn’t realize I was stabbing the potato enough to almost make it a sifter. Wrapping it in tinfoil, I set it aside as I reach for my wine. I don’t know if I can drink in front of Hank. He assured me he was fine the other night, but this is new for me. I don’t want to cross a line or be insensitive, but I need this glass to calm my nerves. We still have things to discuss. What he told me about the other woman in his life rattled me, especially since she’s dead. Seeing the woman outside his business worries me that his former lover was mixed up in drugs or something, and it’s a heavy burden to carry. I want tonight to be easy, comfortable, and relaxed even though I’m not feeling any of those things.

  The doorbell rings, and I almost spill the wine as I set my glass back on the counter. Opening the door, I find another handful of flowers. The arrangement he brought me the other night was beautiful, and this one nearly matches it.

  “These are lovely,” I say, stepping back to let him in.

  “So are you.” He steps forward and kisses me. Pressed into my front door, I’m ready to forget dinner and eat him right here. His mouth moves over mine, and my knees shake. Without thinking, I reach for his belt, tugging him to me. Hank groans, the vibration rumbling over my lips, and I press against him. We don’t physically align when we stand together, but like a magnet, my body is attracted to the right places on him. I’ll get there with squirming and climbing if I need to.

  He chuckles. “Eager?” The word whispers into my throat.

  “Yes.” The breathy response surprises me. More startling, Hank drops the flowers and hikes me up his body. My legs wrap around his waist, and we continue to make out against the open front door. A horn honks from a car racing down the street, and I break away. “Cripes. The neighbors.” I laugh although the honking horn could have been for any number of reasons.

  “Yes, what would the neighbors say?” Hank mocks with a touch of sarcasm. “And did you just say cripes?” I’m not embarrassed by him as he said this morning, but I also don’t need my neighbors knowing my business. He settles me back on my feet, and my knee buckles. “Easy there, lady. You been drinkin’?”

  Shit. I have, but it’s not why I almost fell over. It’s Hank. I’m drunk on him.

  “Yes,” I admit. “But I’m okay.” He eyes me suspiciously. “One glass. Not even.”

  After gathering up my newest bouquet, he follows me into my kitchen where I find another pitcher for the new flowers and mention my menu.

  “I’m warning you already. I’m not a cook. I don’t know why I asked you over for dinner.” Hank’s eyes widen, his brow crinkling his forehead. Holding up my hands, I clarify, “No, I mean, I hope it’s edible.”

  I pick up the plate with the steaks and foil wrapped potatoes while Hank grabs my wine glass and follows me to my back patio. A variety of white candles surround a small glass pitcher where I placed a few flowers from my first arrangement. The flames flicker in the early evening breeze. A multi-colored tablecloth covers the typically-bare wrought iron table. I was going for an eclectic-seductive look, if that’s even possible. I point at a seat for Hank and then reach for the grill to check the heat for the steaks. Setting the meat and potatoes on the low heat, Hank asks me to explain who Pendelton is to me.

  “Pendelton Wares is a boutique housewares company, and the account I w
anted before I quit Bigle Marketing.” I sense Hank’s confusion in his stare, so I try again. “Think Burberry meets Magnolia Farms.” He’s still staring. “You have no idea what I’m talking about.”

  “Oh, were you speaking? I was too busy watching your mouth to listen.” Okay then. Turning the steaks, pleased with the grill marks, I smile to myself, and try again to explain the dishes and home décor Pendelton sells.

  “Their problem is the old man. He needs to join the twenty-first century and move their collections online. Retail stories or catalogues alone won’t sell his products. Not to mention, he could use a few updates to his offerings.”

  Hank motions for the seat across from him and pushes my wine glass toward me.

  “Why is he so important to you?”

  “I just think if I had had the chance to share my ideas with him, we would have landed the account. I would have proved myself to Katrina, my boss. And maybe proved something to myself.” Hank tilts his head in question but then his nose crinkles.

  “Umm…” He turns toward the grill and I follow his gaze to see smoke steaming from the edges of the cover.

  “Shit.” I race for the grill to find flaming steaks and burnt foil around the potatoes. This reminds me I didn’t start the vegetables. I turn everything and mention the medley I need to prepare inside. He chuckles, and I excuse myself, wondering how people do all the things. It’s all about timing, my mother would tell me of cooking, but I don’t get it. With picky kids and most meals on the go, this isn’t the type of ensemble I typically make for dinner. Working the pan over the stove’s flames, I hear the metal clink of the grill opening through the back door I left open, and Hank comments that he’s going to remove everything. The plates are already outside on the side table, so I work fast at moving around the carrots, zucchini, and squash. The colors look pretty, but the presentation is lacking. Some look undercooked; others look overcooked. I like firm veggies, not mushy, but I’m making a mess.

  “Can I help you?” Hank’s voice behind me startles me, and the spatula slips from my hand. Wayward veggies flip through the air like food fireworks as the cooking utensil lands at my feet. Reaching down to pick it up, my backside bumps into him. “Damn, girl.”

  I stand quickly, face flushed as he grips my hips. “One day. This way. From behind.” I shiver with the promise of more sex with him. I’m thinking I’d be willing to let him take me anyway he wants. I’m a hot mess like the vegetables.

  He reaches around me and lifts the pan. A flick of his wrist and the remaining combination flies, landing back in the pan, flipped and sizzling.

  “How did you do that?” I mutter, his chest to my back.

  “It’s all in the wrist.” His voice drops and so does a kiss to my neck. I tilt my head, allowing him access to more of me. I want his mouth all over my body. Forget the vegetables. He sucks the juncture of my neck and shoulder, and my knees quake once again. He laughs against my skin. “Having trouble staying on your feet, little lady?”

  Yeah, well, that’s what he does to me.

  I scoop the veggies into a bowl and take them out to the table. Horrified, I stare at the burned steak and charred tinfoil potatoes.

  “Sweet cheese, I’ve made a mess of this.” I sigh. Now what?

  “Sit. It will be fine.” We do sit, but it’s not fine. Hank jostles the entire table as he tries to cut his steak. I slice through the foil to find the potato still rock hard inside.

  “This is awful,” I whisper.

  “It’s good.” Hank takes a bite, chewing slowly, then struggles before swallowing. I clamp my lips, fighting a smile.

  “You are such a good liar. Admit it, it’s not edible.”

  “It’s just chewy.”

  I burst out laughing at his reply. “It’s breaking your teeth.”

  “Nah, I broke one once. It’s nothing like that.”

  “Ouch.” I chuckle.

  “Yeah.” He grins. “Tommy and I were…” His voice drifts, not filling in the words, but his smile grows. “He clocked me with—” He stops abruptly. There’s a whole story here, but he’s not sharing it. He chuckles to himself, but it’s obviously a private moment I’m not going to be let in on. “Anyway, yeah, it hurts. Nothing whiskey didn’t heal then, though.” He scoffs, the humor escaping him.

  “Was it hard to give up?” I ask, curious about such an addiction. I’m becoming addicted to him, yet I know it’s not the same thing. Giving him up might be difficult, though.

  “It’s hard to explain, but yes, it was. I mean, you tell yourself you don’t need it; you just want it. But somehow, your body craves it. Your mind believes it’s the only way through something. Sometimes, I think it was the only way I made it through certain patches of my life. Other times, I know it’s what caused those rough spots. Then one day, hopefully, you decide you have to live without it or it’s going to kill you.”

  “Is that what happened to you?”

  “Maybe. Not really. For me, it was more like someone else died, and it took me a while to wake up.”

  The woman, I think but don’t want to ask. I nod, acknowledging I know who he means.

  “You really loved her.” It makes me sad. Sad to know he loved someone who didn’t love him. Sad to believe he loved so strongly, so powerfully, so all-consuming. Sad to accept no one has ever loved me like that.

  “I’m not certain I know what love is. When I look back on her, on us, and what we didn’t have, that couldn’t have been love, right? It was just sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll.” He tries to tease, but sorrow seeps into his words. It would make sense. He seems like a wild child turned wilder man.

  “Sounds like fun,” I joke, but I’m not certain I mean it.

  “Really?”

  “I guess not.” I sigh, running a finger around my wine glass, dinner forgotten. “I mean, who doesn’t want to be so carefree sometimes, but I’ve never been that loose.” My eyes leap up to his. I already admitted this morning I hadn’t ever had a one-night stand. “I never did drugs, and I like music, but not rock ’n’ roll.”

  He gasps, pressing a hand over his heart. “Lady, I could have guessed on one and two, but three? Not liking rock ’n’ roll wounds me to my soul.”

  “Why?” I still circle the rim, leaning on the table. I feel like a big reveal is coming.

  “Because rock ’n’ roll is life.” He goes quiet, willing me to absorb his revelation.

  “That’s it. I was expecting something more profound, earth shattering, and rock ’n’ roll is life is all you got?” I laugh again.

  “Oh, you’re going to get something,” he warns. Standing quickly, he scoops me out of my chair and carries me inside over his shoulder, fireman style. I scream and squirm, but secretly I’m ecstatic with his teasing threat. He stomps through my house and drops me on my couch, then covers me, slipping his entire body between my open thighs. Brushing back my loose hair, he lowers to kiss me. I love his mouth. I love the feel of him over me; his weight covering my body. I feel safe under him. Fingers dip into my pulled back hair, unsettling it from the messy bun. My hands cup the back of his head and scratch his short hair before slipping into the back of his t-shirt.

  “I freaking love your hands on me,” he mutters against my lips.

  “I love touching you,” I whisper, knowing it’s offering a bit too much, but it’s true. My hands love to touch his skin, cover his tattoos, and feel the warmth of him. “But I owe you dinner.”

  I need to cool things down, or I’m stripping him and taking him on this couch.

  “Yeah, about that.”

  “It sucked.”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t use words like that with me, little lady.” He kisses my neck, peppering up to my jaw.

  “Why not?” I chuckle, his kisses vibrating under my chin.

  “Because sucking is something I’m hungry for.” Instant. Wetness. My hips buck of their own accord, grinding against the hard length of him straining his jeans. He pulls back to kneel between my
knees and drags me to sit. Reaching for the hem of my shirt, he tugs it over my head. Then he reaches for the back of his collar and removes his. Is there any move sexier on a man? I could watch him do it again and again, but I’m sidetracked when he sits back.

  “Trade places with me, Middy.” I swing my legs, and he repositions himself, then pats his lap. For the briefest of seconds, my eyes flip to the picture window behind him.

  “Worried about the neighbors? Hit the lights, little lady.” He’s mocking me somehow, but I do as he says. I flick off the table lamp, slipping the room into darkness minus the dull streetlight outside. I want to pull the curtains, but he’s watching me, daring me to leave them open. Can my neighbors really see me?

  “Take off your jeans.” The command stings like a tickling smack. My sex clenches, and I do as he tells me. His lids lower, narrowing as he takes me in. I’m awkward with the skinny jeans at my ankles, and I’m not certain I like this game. Is he teasing me? Finally free of my clothing, I stand, take a deep breath, and stare down at him.

  “You are the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen, lady.” His voice rings serious, surprised, as if he hadn’t noticed before and means every word. “Come here.” He pats his lap again, and I straddle him.

  Cupping his head like I did moments ago, I lean forward and kiss him, only this isn’t the tender kisses of our greeting or the time for discovery Hank usually gives me. This is a race, mouths galloping over one another, speeding forward, pushing, pressing, yearning to cross the line. He’s jostling his belt under me, but my mouth won’t release his. He’s moaning into my throat, spurring me onward until I feel the soft cotton of his boxer briefs under the dampness of my underwear. I release his lips on a moan of pure pleasure, feeling the hard length of him under me. My hips roll, and I grip his shoulders, anchoring myself to him as I ride the tide of growing friction.

  “Gonna come, baby?” I can’t answer him; the tension feels so good, the building wave catching my breath. “Fuck yeah, lady, take what you need.”