by Andrews
“You give them all your money?”
“Easier to make more than fight over the spoils.” I wondered why I was sharing my financial status with her. Do I think she’s interested in me only because of my money, or am I interested in her and don’t want her to think I have more than I do?
“Wow,” she said quietly, then, maybe sensing my self-consciousness, changed the subject. “You waited until you were twenty-eight to live with someone?”
“I suppose you were eight when you had your first relationship with the girl next door?”
“Eighteen.” Liz smirked at my sarcasm. “Toni Davis, my college roomie and star of the basketball team.”
“Now that’s butch.” I smiled.
“I guess not. She got married to a weird guy and had four kids.”
“Ever hear from her?”
“Sometimes, but not about that. She’s into her kids and her life. So back to you,” she said as if the interview had gotten off track. “What happens in the fourth year of these relationships you have?”
“I think it starts happening right away and just crescendos in the fourth year. Speaking of which, are you shaking my bed?”
“How could I be shaking your bed from over here?”
“Do you see it shaking?”
“Maybe we’re over a parking garage? Maybe the trucks outside are vibrating the bed? Call the front desk.”
“And say my bed is vibrating? Sounds like a kid’s joke.” I picked up the phone and explained to the front desk clerk that I was in room 211 and a vibration was affecting my bed. I inquired as to roads, railways, or parking-garage problems.
“What did she say?” Liz asked when I hung up.
“She laughed, which I suppose means no.”
We both sat and watched the bed move until five minutes later it stopped abruptly.
“That’s a sign, if you ever want a sign that someone wants us to leave,” Liz said. “How much clearer does it have to get? Even the furniture is trying to shake us out of here!”
I told Liz that the furniture at Clare’s house had obviously performed the same service and laughed until tears ran down my cheeks like the torrential rain outside, releasing tension I’d carried with me for so long.
When the laughter subsided, silence ensued. In the dark, I could see Liz in silhouette as she lay on her back, looking up at the ceiling. “What are you thinking?” I asked quietly.
“You first.”
“I’m thinking while this whole trip probably feels insane to you at this point, it feels like the only really sane thing I’ve done in a long time. I’ve spent every waking moment doing the bidding of lunatics. I risk my life flying across the country to meetings that mean nothing in the scope of time. I can’t sell our series because a network elf wants to do a show about submerging a ballet troupe in a submarine-drowning incident, which is beyond meaningless. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing with my life.”
I was tearing up again and was glad I was in the dark. It was exhaustion—an emotional and spiritual exhaustion that I couldn’t even name, let alone come to grips with. I closed my eyes to focus my mind on more temporal subjects to avoid crying.
“You okay?”
“Just tired.” Focus on the horse…a beautiful, muscular, kind, trustworthy animal. I felt my mind growing heavy and my eyelids closing and my soul drifting off to sleep.
A woman struggles against me as I attempt to lift her dress, the fabric soft. I feel dizzy and something inside me shifts. Flashes of purple and gold, large flat stones against my back—my massive thighs clench her as they would the sides of a horse. I am physically much larger and more muscled than she, aware I could hurt her, but I choose not to, even though she struggles to be free. Unable to wait, I force my pulsating member into her small, tight center. I don’t care if she fights me. This small woman with the beautiful blond hair is mine now. Mine. No one else will ever have her.
My body tenses and explodes. I climax and fall back exhausted, my heavy arm across her small chest keeping her from rising up and perhaps trying to harm me as I lie weak, overwhelmed by what I feel for her. Feelings I have never had for a woman and do not want. Women distract and weaken a warrior.
*
I opened my eyes in surprise, blinking into the pitch dark and trying to arrange my thoughts, aware I had been out of my body in an elaborate fantasy. Strange images about lovemaking cast erotic shadows in my mind, images not of my making, at least not consciously. I wasn’t attempting to create them. More troubling, I couldn’t control them. I was someone else. Actually not someone else; I was myself, but I wasn’t me.
“Are you all right?” Liz looked at me through a haze of sleep.
“Fine,” I lied and glanced over at the clock. 1:11a.m. “Did I awaken you?” I asked apologetically.
“You were moaning.”
“I’m sorry. I guess I was dreaming. The strangest flashes were going on in my head. Colors and textures. And for a moment, I thought I was someone else.”
“Who were you?”
“I don’t know…a man maybe,” I said, self-conscious suddenly.
“What were you doing?”
“I was conquering a large fortress or compound and seizing a woman. She was beautiful, and I…I think I took her against her will.” Just saying those words made me feel bad.
“That’s—an unusual dream.” Liz said softly.
“I’ve had similar dreams,” I said and rolled over to go to sleep, not wanting to share any more of my mania with Liz Chase.
At that moment, my cell phone beeped from its resting place on the bedside table, and I picked it up and retrieved a message from Clare, telling me to call her, no matter how late.
Liz could easily hear Clare’s plaintive tone from across the silence and offered to go into the bathroom so I could have some privacy to call her.
“No, don’t go. It’s too late to call. Years too late.”
Chapter Eight
At dawn, the rain was still coming down and the toilet in our bedroom overflowed for no apparent reason; we packed quickly and went downstairs to use the lobby restroom. The restaurant had posted a sign that said it could not serve breakfast due to an equipment breakdown. Even I was beginning to see the signs. Tornados, people with Norwegian elkhound stories, vibrating beds, stopped-up toilets, and no breakfast meant someone wanted us to move along quickly. We packed the car and headed for our next horse farm in Kentucky.
The darkened old tobacco barns and rich green pastures of Kentucky began to line each side of the highway and soon gave way to mile upon mile of carefully tended three-rail horse fencing and gorgeous steeds befitting bluegrass country. The angle of the morning sun sent beams of light bouncing across the front seat of the car, making the journey seem celestial.
“Why do you suppose you dreamed of raping a woman?” Liz asked, startling me with the word and her directness.
In the light of day, the thought was even more horrible and embarrassing. “I think in those days, it wasn’t rape exactly. It was more like…acquisition. Men simply acquired what they wanted and what they could afford, including women.”
“Rape as acquisition? I think not!” she said, and I shot her a look that said “Let up.”
“Maybe you have pent-up sexual energy.”
“Look, it was a dream. I would never do that. I think you can attest to the fact that I’m pretty safe.”
“Too safe, actually.” She smiled.
“And what does that mean, Dr. Freud?”
“I shouldn’t have said safe. I meant—”
“I’m just working out my relationship issues in my head so I don’t keep repeating the same mistake. I want to have a thousand experiences once, instead of one experience a thousand times. It has nothing to do with you or your attractiveness or desirability—”
“Good,” she said. Apparently picking up on my perplexed look she added, “Good that you find me attractive.”
I cut my eyes at her, refusing to tak
e the bait. She’s damned attractive and she knows it. I glanced over at her as she put on a very racy pair of sunglasses, then leaned her head back on the seat, arching her neck and making me want to put my lips there. I turned the radio to XM and listened to Ray Stevens sing about a camel…anything to avoid thinking about Liz.
*
We spent the night at the Marriott Griffin Gate in Lexington, a hotel that oozed old Southern charm. The lobby gift shop was filled with horse-abilia from countless Derby championships. The restaurant, in a separate colonial mansion, would have made Tara proud; the massive pillars disappeared up into the sky and framed a front porch that begged for a rocking chair and a mint julep. It was still relatively early, but we skipped dinner and fell into our soft beds, tired and happy, as if the entire trip was merely about this moment—these intimate conversations in the near dark, in beds separated by five feet of longing.
“So of the people you’ve lived with—the four—who made you wild with desire?” Liz asked, grinning like a teenager at a sleepover.
“That’s a very odd question. Why would you want to know that?”
“I guess I was just wondering what an always-in-control, buttoned-up corporate executive likes in bed. Can’t be that glued together all the time. You have to come loose somewhere.”
Her tone was playful but I refused to play.
She filled the silence. “It’s merely research on my part. I might meet someone in the corporate world one day and—”
“Cut it out,” I said good-naturedly.
“True. Enough about you. I’ll tell you what I like.” She gave the topic a matter-of-fact tone. “I love kissing. Deep, sensual kissing. I could kiss—well, far longer than the average bear,” she said, and I sucked the interior of my cheeks in until I was nearly biting them to avoid grinning at her and thus encouraging her.
She continued. “When I think about it I guess I’m very oral in all respects, but that makes perfect sense because I make my living with my mouth, as a broadcaster. Now, you make your living strategically with your mind, so maybe sex is all in your head—you think?”
“I think you’re thinking all the time. Good night,” I said and rolled over, turning my back to her to avoid temptation. I pretended the thick luxurious bedding and the silky pillow were Liz’s body next to mine. Hearing her breathe across from me was sensual and disconcerting.
*
At dawn, I bounced out of bed, energetic for no apparent reason, and commanded that we get into our riding gear and head for the small horse farm Liz had arranged for us to visit. My pants were black stretch, and after pulling them on, I was convinced I had bought a size too small, because every bulge and crease in my lower torso was visible. My new, shiny black boots seemed gigantic and had more laces and hooks than a corset.
Eying my huge black feet in the mirror, I sighed. “I look like Ronald McDonald at a clown funeral.”
Liz giggled, and I was aware how much I liked hearing her laugh and how I liked being the one who evoked that laughter.
“There are no clown funerals, darling,” Liz said. “Old clowns are recycled into crayons.”
And this time I laughed.
We were headed for the door, bound for our big adventure, when my cell phone rang. Liz plopped down on the bed, turned on the TV, and kept it muted as I picked up to hear Walter Puckett’s voice.
“Who is this Megan Stanford?” Walter Puckett boomed. My mind shifted into quick overdrive. Walter asking about a person three levels down meant, more than likely, he’d heard that Megan was Anselm’s girlfriend.
“She’s heading up a new area for us, strategic development,” I replied calmly.
“She’s a microbiologist! I think we might just be bringing our chicks into the nest.” He laughed unpleasantly.
I didn’t like his sneaking up on Anselm’s flank; he was Anselm’s peer. If he had a problem, he should confront Anselm. Furthermore, Megan now belonged to me, and although I hadn’t asked for her, she was in my corporate care and would not be ambushed by CEOs with ulterior motives.
“Actually, the skill set she brings—an analytical, organizational approach to problem solving—is applicable across any business genre. And like any new hire, she’s on the standard ninety-day probationary period.” I spoke casually.
“So Anselm didn’t hire her. You did?”
“No one hires for me,” I answered obliquely.
“Well, she’s cute. Maybe I should become her mentor.”
“No dipping your pen in company ink,” I kidded him.
“Oh, so strict. I like strict women. Enjoy your horse hunting. Maybe you’ll find a stallion yet.” I could hear him snickering. I wasn’t about to let him get away with an insinuating reference to my sexuality without lifting the covers on his own.
“Did you hear the rumor that one of our high-level execs got a penile implant in exchange for A-Media’s handling the doctor’s brother’s career?” That stopped him from hanging up. “How hard up does a guy have to be, so to speak?” I said, enjoying hearing him squirm.
“Ridiculous.” He snorted, then quickly said good-bye.
“Fucking asshole. Maybe I’ll find a stallion yet? Maybe I’ll turn him into a gelding!” I said, hanging up the phone.
“You are the consummate corporate warrior.” Liz smiled. “You like the battle: the sparring, the strategy, the kill.”
“I don’t like that,” I defended myself.
She studied me. “A part of you does. Come on. Let’s get out of here before someone else calls.”
“You’re wrong. I feel owned, like a leader in someone else’s army, fighting someone else’s war. They control where I go, what I do, how I behave. I’m tired of fighting these senseless corporate battles. That’s how I feel!”
Liz dropped the subject since I was on a rant.
We drove west through richly rolling countryside to Aaron Harold’s small horse farm. The moment we pulled onto the property I felt as if I’d stepped into a centuries-old fantasy—Icelandic horses and lush green hills. All it needed was a fortress in the background. We saw a gorgeous blond mare with golden mane, a silver dapple, a liver-colored with silver mane, a snowy white one, and I knew we’d come to the right place. This felt like the land of the fairies, and if very small people suddenly pirouetted into the pasture I wouldn’t have been surprised.
We strode across the open field toward the liver-colored horse, staring in amazement at the sheer beauty of her. “I wish I owned one of these horses,” I told Liz.
“They’re all beautiful, aren’t they?” Aaron appeared out of nowhere, a young, lanky horse trainer befitting the intense beauty of the land and the beasts. He had a sweet, kind manner that put us immediately at ease. “Most of this herd belongs to a man in New York who sent them down for training. In fact, we’re shipping several back tomorrow so it’s good you arrived today.”
And I couldn’t help but think maybe that’s why our hotel had seemed to be hurrying us on to our next destination.
Aaron led the way down the hill and suggested we saddle up. I followed him like a child chasing the Pied Piper, peppering him with questions about the horses. Aaron had two chestnuts saddled, one for himself and one for Liz, and a large brown and white pinto for me. My pinto’s name was completely unpronounceable, while Liz’s horse was Hlatur—a name that sounded like “louder” and meant “laughter” in Icelandic. Aaron said the man in New York had authorized the use of these particular horses for riding lessons.
Hlatur had a huge head, a massive mane of hair, and gorgeous big round eyes that peeked out from under his long, thick forelock. He stood quietly with his legs together and hooves aligned, his small, compact body so physically perfect that he could easily have been an artist’s drawing on the side of a child’s lunchbox. Liz immediately stroked his forehead and began whispering to him. Then she leaned over and gave him a slow, sweet kiss on his soft muzzle, and for a second I envied Hlatur. I wanted to ask him how those lips felt.
My
horse was not at all interested in kissing me. In fact, he stomped and swished his tail and threw his head to let me know that this entire event bored the hell out of him. Unlike Liz’s mount, my horse had not been trimmed for the warm weather and still sported his five inches of jaw hair, making him appear even more primitive than Hlatur. He had a look about him that said he knew a great deal more than he intended to waste time trying to communicate to me.
Aaron completed a final tack check on the three saddled horses just in time for rain to start trickling down from the sky. We insisted we could get a quick ride in before it really let loose, and we walked the horses away from the barn, then mounted. Liz’s horse fell behind and refused to go with us until she leaned over and whispered to him, and suddenly, he caught up with us.
After Aaron was sure we wouldn’t fall off, he led us through a narrow gulley and out into a much larger area of open land. We picked up speed and suddenly there it was, off and on for brief moments—the tolt. I felt the thrill, that smooth, effortless, bounceless moment of easy riding. Suddenly the skies opened up, and it began to pour a drenching, steady Kentucky rain that had us wet through to our underwear in a matter of minutes.
“Should we take cover?” Aaron called.
“Why? We can’t get any wetter.” I laughed.
“Ahhh, spoken like a true horseman,” he said, and we rode on laughing and tolting, and trotting and squishing.
Liz and Aaron lagged behind. I was suddenly out in front with nothing but rolling hills in the distance. It was pure joy! But I had no connection to my horse, only the sensation of the ride. It wasn’t the horse’s temperament I cared about, only his ability to carry me forward. I mentally noted that this attitude wasn’t at all like me. I also found myself inexplicably on guard and watchful, my eyes searching far out on the horizon. I was looking up ahead—men were already engaged in battle. Was I losing my mind? The images were so real. Then, in a split second, my conscious mind gave way.
