I heaved myself from bed. No sense thinking about her when she probably slept contentedly in whatever room she'd secured for her stay, not giving me a second thought.
So, with nothing on but my boxers, and gripping a flashlight I managed to rummage from my kitchen, I made my way out onto the lawn. In the September moonlight, I picked through the path of thickets and rose bushes onto the beach.
The heady smell of salt and seaweed clung to the air. I found a patch of sand surrounded by eelgrass. Sitting cross-legged, naked save my drawers, I filtered cool sand through my fingers. To be or not to be -- that was the question.
The juice had gone out of living. It had gone out of getting pussy, for Heaven's sake, and it truly was a sad point if you realized how so literally on a gluttonous feast of pussy I'd been that I could be a Roman tickling his throat with a feather to find that one more delectable morsel. For a man so fully sated but unsatisfied, it was a miracle I didn't want to live to see one more shaved and moist slit.
Celibacy wasn't my original intent; it was more of a natural progression. I had cut off ties with everyone I knew. Any and all of the bevy of girls I kept on a short, selfish tether. I'd started to believe they all flocked to my cock for the money and slowly but surely, I hacked every root that connected me to humankind. I didn't even see my mother or sister regularly, nor did I visit my one time fuck-buddy, Gina, like I used to. Work was a thing that had me there body, but not soul. I shuffled home at five every day, content to sit on my couch and torture the remote.
So there I sat in my drawers, a 28-year-old man, attractive in my way, filtering sand through my toes and wondering what the Hell this was all about. I wondered about my recent past, how I'd ever make up for my father's death and whether my family could forgive me. I thought, too, about my sister, Jesse. I thought about Mom. I worried that I'd want to come back out of my dark shell and would find nothing outside in the light that could keep me there.
Surely Hannah was the initial reason I came to the beach for the second time in one night. She'd caught my attention when for the last while nothing else could. I couldn't decide what it was about her that had pulled me out of my fog. She certainly was beautiful, but surely I'd met and dated many beautiful women. Thoughts of them couldn't disperse the haze; why did Hannah? It could have been her lack of suitable admiration for my miniature mansion, or it could have been that she seemed more interested in the shadows that stretched up the side of it. Both made her intriguing. But thoughts of her would disperse like the hazy clouds of my frequent highs. Like my desire for purpose, or love of family.
My erection had gone, so too would thoughts of Hannah.
The alarm yanked me from my dreams. The sun streamed in through the window in annoying rays. Damn its sunny disposition. Seven a.m. was not a decent hour for anything to be grinning. From my spot in bed, I surveyed the room, and wondered how Hannah would see it. Furnished completely from online purchases and high-end auctions, it oozed money. Anyone stepping in would immediately notice the mahogany and brass, they'd feel wrapped in wealth. Would she enjoy the feeling? Somehow, I doubted it.
I pulled my aching body from bed, wondered if I should make it up, and like every morning since the previous year, opted to do it tomorrow. I managed a shower, though, and a shave. I even slapped my jaw with a little cologne. At work, all must appear as usual.
In a fit of philanthropy-as-therapy move, I'd set up a little co-op type of money lending institution that now had become my prison of good will. I couldn't find any gracious way out, and when I thought about just letting it crash, my Dad's voice dug into my psyche, saying work built character and on the heels of that my mother's voice telling me appearances were important.
"Such a clean-shaven boy," I'd once heard an old battle-axe say to another when she thought I wasn't looking.
Boy. Well, maybe so, but not for years. Boyhood, I thought on my way to work, had been lost to an English teacher. Exciting as it might have been to lose my virginity at fifteen to a fresh twenty-four-year-old violet-thong wearing diva, I suppose now, it was just a little sick.
"Sick, Colonel, old man," I said out loud to the vintage Colonel Sanders bank that sat on the passenger seat of my BMW. It had belonged to mother back in the 70s. Her getting-out-of-this-shithole account as she'd called it. Her dreams melted when she got pregnant for me at fifteen and she ended up staying in the town. At least now I had enough money to send her to Bermuda every winter. She'd passed me the bank as a reminder of how dreams could come true.
I'd taken to throwing a token loonie in it each morning in a sick sort of ritual. It was like punching a time clock for me, and I felt a little of myself die each time I heard one coin hit another inside. Even so, I couldn't stop the routine to save my deadened soul.
I squinted at the bank out of the corner of my eye, imagining me knocking up that teacher at the same age as my Mom had. "It's just plain sick."
All too soon, work loomed before me, awaiting direction and discretion. Thoughts of virgins and beautiful women would have to be put away for another day. That niggling sense of duty rose like a wagging, nagging tongue. A man works. Doesn't matter how much money he has. He works because it builds character. Damn.
"Good morning, Daniel." Sweet-faced Gina, as always, was the first inside to greet me. I glanced at her. In a linen skirt and heels that made her short legs look half-ways long she looked more sexy than sweet. Not that Gina wanted any man to think her legs were sexy; she was more into impressing women now. Something about finally realizing what she wanted out of life. I remember guffawing at that. Who knew such things?
This morning, however, despite my thoughts on her sexual enlightening, I smiled.
"Gina. How are you this fine morning?"
My quick burst of good humour dissipated as quickly as I realized her relief. I couldn't have been so distant lately that it was that good to see me smile.
"I'm great." She passed me a stack of loans to sign off and blinked a delectably long-lashed eye. "Your Irish eyes are certainly smiling." Standing with her hand on her hip, she waited for further conversation. I looked around for an escape.
She caught my eye. "Don't get your drawers in a twist, Danny. I'm not about to bore you with friendly chit chat."
Damn her.
"Damn you," I said.
Rather than affect a dignified look of offense, she bared her teeth at me and hissed. Much like a wild cat. Then she grinned and walked away.
I've known Gina since second grade. Calling her anything but wild is as appropriate as combing your butt hair with a silver brush.
"Tell anyone who calls, I'm busy." I hollered after.
"Yeah, yeah. Busy all day, right Dan?"
I saw Hannah before I took my first peek at my agenda. There was no need to actually look at my appointment book; it was clear. I'd managed for the last week to do absolutely nothing. That meant I worked hard all day to do so little.
Before being able to scratch a long slash across the day's date, I had a terrible, wrenching urge to look up.
I peered up through the plate glass window that gave me view of the teller counter. Usually I pulled the blind so nobody could see me doodling away with magic marker on my pad of Post-It notes. Today, I'd forgotten.
Gina had taken Hannah's coat--a long Australian-type khaki duster. Damn that Gina. She was just too efficient. She'd have those long jean-clad legs crossed inside her snug office up front before I could get out there.
I just couldn't have that.
I peeked out the window at the two, all the while struggling with the damn knob. Locked. I'd forgotten the blinds, but remembered to lock everyone out. Sweet. Now, Gina had her arm across Hannah's slender shoulder. I rattled the knob, peering sideways through the window. There went Gina guiding my newly discovered reason for living around a counter. There went Hannah smiling her great gap-toothed grin. Ah God. I had to get out.
The door swung open. And sweet mother of God, they saw me.
"Gina." I
fought to make my voice calm. "May I see you?"
Gina tossed her red hair and crinkled her nose and I thought she could crinkle and toss all she wanted. I didn't care about Gina. It was Hannah's smile that made my stomach squirm. No use trying to smile back. My mouth had frozen into what felt like a Bela Lugosi smile.
I turned the constricted grin on Gina. "Can I see you?"
"Sure, Daniel," she said and turned to Hannah. "Could you wait in my office?"
Hannah's shrug moved her hair ever so slightly. Yup. Like unplaited ropes. Kinky as the thoughts pounding in my head. They made me queasy.
When we were just out of Hannah's earshot, I hissed at Gina. "I thought you were going straight."
I closed my door and faced her with what I hoped looked like displeasure. I had the feeling it looked more like what it was -- desperation.
"What does my straightness or lack thereof have to do with a loan application?"
I gulped. She watched my throat with keen interest. "Loan?"
She nodded.
"You mean you don't know her?"
She perked her brow. "How would I know her?"
I turned to my desk. Just a few more seconds. I'd have my composure soon enough. Stalling, I sat on the corner.
"Daniel, quit stalling. How the hell would I know her--and what business is it of yours if I do?"
"I thought you might be mixing pleasure with work again."
Her pretty complexion darkened.
"That only happened once." She slammed her fist on the desk right next to my leg.
My head floated free of my body and into a pool of murk. I stammered out some sort of excuse.
"Yes, yes." She kept on, but she paced the floor, her heels tapping against the tiles. "Don't bother with the excuses. I think you're afraid she might like me."
I ignored her comment. "You're straight now, right?"
She grinned the hellcat grin I knew so well. "If she's straight, why would it matter?"
I shrugged. Maybe for once I was afraid I'd be passed over, when everything always came to me. Even Gina, evidently gay since puberty, had tried me on. Maybe some horrible part of me still cared.
"I guess it wouldn't," I said.
She softened and patted my cheek. "She just asked about a loan, darlin'. I'm only getting her particulars."
I settled my feet onto the floor and stared at my wing tips. "She's not from here. I better take those particulars."
Certainly subtlety was never lost on Gina. Nothing ever surprised her. "Sure," she answered and made for the door.
At least I could breathe.
"Oh, and," Gina touched the knob but turned so her pert nose gained an impertinent air. "By the way. You were just an experiment."
Hannah's presence in my office drove me near mad. Her scent found each and every crevice of the all-business room. It didn't fit in there, not when you considered that the wood was press board, the walls a glaring white and the metal shelving supported stacks of file folders swelling with paper. Her fragrance was refreshingly alien. Everywhere I turned, cloves and soap met my senses. She lounged, in an unloungeable chair, one leg flung over the other, cleavage straining against the V in her white tee shirt. Bad enough she sat there watching me while I played dirty with her in my mind---she wore no bra.
And in that cotton-white, her pink nipples were as visible as the curve of her breast. Obviously her loan appointment outfit. I couldn't bear it.
"Could you use coffee?" I offered.
She grinned. I had to peel the tongue from the roof of my mouth.
"Nah, Makes me pee." She gave me a conspiratorial look. Then she smiled.
"Right," I answered. "I was wondering if you remembered me."
"You clean up nice."
I felt like a young boy toeing the dirt. "Shucks. Thanks."
"I've already had my daily caffeine quota. I'll take some water, though."
Oh. So she was one of those.
"And a loan," she continued.
Right. The reason she was here. Now how did I go about that again? I'd passed it off to Gina so often I doubted I knew where to begin. I turned my head this way and that, ruffled a few papers to make it look good.
"Umm... I can try someplace else..." Hannah uncrossed her legs and adjusted her grin with her tongue.
Now that I'd found an excuse for living through the entire day, I wasn't about to let it saunter straight back out my office.
"No, no." I fumbled toward her. "I can give you the money."
I raked a nervous hand through my hair. "Let's open you an account first. Okay?" I swiped my fingers against my creased trousers and tried to remember what the first step to that was. I could hear my own breathing.
"Forms?" she said, helpfully.
Right. That was it. "I'll get the water, too."
I fled from my office and down the short tiled hallway to the water cooler. As I scratched through my mind trying to think of a way to ask Hannah out, I walked straight into a herd of water buffalo, better known as the elite old ladies of yesteryear.
They crowded around the water cooler in the account holder's section. I recognized the blue-haired coif as belonging to Buffalo Belle, leader of the herd. She'd come to us because she didn't trust the banks with her pension cheque, dragging along all the old biddies from the senior's complex that she seemed to independent to live in.
I wanted to see her as badly as I wanted jock itch.
"Good morning, Mr. Manager," she said, sounding as if the word, manager, was a chunk of dog turd cutting off her air.
"Same to you, Mrs. Hastings." I reached for a cone of paper. I wasn't a manager, and she knew it. I owned the place, thanks to that revolting fit of philanthropic energy that squeaked to me in the dark hours of night that I could make a difference with my money. That making a difference would make me feel better. Three years in and I felt worse instead.
She raised her hand indicating that the sea of ladies could part and allow me access to the water.
"Have you checked my account for those service charges, yet?"
The water came in slow dribbles. "We've been through this before, Mrs. Hastings." I couldn't spare the eye to look at her. "If you withdraw more than ten times a month, the computer automatically charges twenty dollars." Finally the cone was filled.
"You shouldn't be charging anything." Her pitch rose to a distinguished snort. Belle had a habit of putting her entire cheque in savings and coming in to the co-op every time she needed a few dollars or had to pay a bill.
I faced her.
"It's policy. If you think you're going to withdraw so many times, why not just put less in your savings and keep the rest as cash. Or open a chequing account."
"But then you charge me five dollars to write cheques."
"It's a hell of a lot better than twenty."
She gaped. The four ladies with her gasped. Apparently hell was not in their vocabulary.
"I would think you'd understand the value of my account." She pickled her lips. Bright red wax lipstick bled into the wrinkles.
"I demand you have a clerk check my account for extra charges. I believe she will come to the same total as I told you. Two hundred dollars. And I'd like to have it returned to me in cash."
"We can discuss this later; I have a client in my office." I tried to push past her.
"We shall discuss this, Mr. Jones." She flicked her wrist and the sea of women closed back in. Without further comment, they eddied toward the front entrance and out into the street.
I shuddered good and hard in a conscious effort to rid my mind of her face. Then I remembered another face. A beautiful face that belonged to a beautiful body sitting right in my office with rosetta nipples straining against a white tee.
I hurried back with the cone of water.
"God," I said as I closed my office door. "That woman could use a lobotomy. Calm her down a little."
Hannah's dove wing brows scuttled down like they wanted to take flight but couldn't.
&nb
sp; "What woman?"
I peered at her, trying to decide if I should say any more. There had to be some sort of discretion at a banking/lending facility and yet...telling her just might create a feeling of intimacy with her that I desperately wanted to cultivate. I decided to go halfway and not mention she was a client. I mean, I'd be dead soon enough; what did it matter?
"A lady I know. I like to call her Buffalo Belle Hastings." I gave Hannah my most disarming grin.
She said nothing, just shifted in her chair and reached for the cone of water I held out to her.
I settled down to work. Shuffled the papers. What was that first step again? Oh, yes, name. I had to ask her name.
"What's your last name, Hannah?"
She poked her tongue through the gap between her teeth. Then she retrieved it. "Hastings," she said. "Hannah Hastings."
Exactly what were the chances? Just about right if you add in the great Almighty and his wonderfully perverted sense of humour.
"Any relation?" I squeaked out.
"Great aunt?"
I could feel the blood leaving my face.
One dove wing lifted over her gorgeous eyes and she grinned.
I swallowed. My left shoe started a frantic dance with the right.
"She doesn't know I'm here, though. She married my father's uncle. We don't speak. Some sort of family feud. So it's okay, Daniel. Really."
My shoes stopped tapping.
She drained the water from the cone and threw the paper into the trash. "Would you like to meet after work?"
I blinked stupidly, hardly believing my good fortune. I was more than ready to alter my celibate status. For the sake of work and salvaging my sense of philanthropy, you understand.
I had every reason upon returning home to light up. I was nervous, plain and simple. So as I pulled my BMW up tight to the side of the porch, I hurried to slam the door and run to my den. Delilah waited patiently under her banker's light. Ambrosia.
Miss You Mad: a psychological romance novel Page 2
