CON MAN

by T. Torrest

  Our mouths opened for one another and I swept my tongue inside, tasting her sweetness, coming unglued. I slid my hands down her hips and pulled her toward me, claiming her, consuming her. I couldn’t get close enough to her. This gorgeous, infuriating woman.

  I hadn’t even realized I’d been walking her backwards toward her bedroom until we were in the middle of the hallway, Mia’s hand reaching behind her for the doorknob. We both knew damn well what was going to happen on the other side of that door.

  “You’re okay with this?” I asked.

  Her liquid-chocolate eyes met mine to answer, “Yes.”

  “But I was such an ass.”

  “Yes, you were.”

  I placed a hand at her jaw, swiping my thumb over her cheek. “I want to make it right. I don’t know what I can tell you to make you believe me.”

  “So, show me, then.”

  She opened her door as her body melted against mine and I kissed her again, tightening my arms around her. My heart almost exploded as her hands slipped down my chest and pressed against the front of my pants.

  I knew she was passionate but I never dared to dream what it would be like to have that passion unleashed on me. I never wanted anything so much. We both collapsed onto her bed, and I tried to kiss her with tenderness but I just couldn’t hold back any longer. I rammed my hips against hers, almost passing out from the sweet friction of her body writhing under mine.

  I tore my lips from hers to ask, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Yes. Are you?”

  “Fuck yes.”

  The next moments were an agonizing blur: Her sultry voice and her melted-chocolate eyes and the lemon-scent of her skin and the feel of her hands in my hair, and I wanted—no, needed—so we struggled out of our clothes until we were laid bare, no pretense, no act, and everything looked so perfect. She was all woman. A real woman, not just some picture in a magazine. She had enticing curves and toned muscle and soft flesh, every inch of which felt amazing under my palms.

  I touched, I tasted, I licked. So sweet. Everything was so sweet. I had my mouth against her breast and I needed to tell her and my voice spoke without permission, “I more you.”

  Her eyes went wide. “You do?”

  “So much more.”

  She grabbed me by the back of my hair and pulled my face to hers, smiling through our kiss.

  Her hand went to her nightstand drawer and I want I want I want and it was more than I could stand, so hard as her palm wrapped around me, and I was scared and nervous and didn’t know if I could do this right.

  And then oh God just like that, just like that. So hot and wet and tight and...

  “Que rico tu te seintes.”

  I didn’t know what she said but she sounded amazing saying it.

  “Dame mas.”

  We were writhing and moaning and I guessed that was a good thing and I was dizzy and bursting but I wanted to give her more, more, more.

  “Asi mismo, asi mismo, asi mismo.”

  And I was slamming into her and I could barely breathe and my head was swimming but Mia felt so good and I need I need I need.

  I buried my face against her neck and she whispered in my ear as she put her hands on my ass and pulled me in deeper and oh fuck it was too much too much too much. Half-words and prayers and begging and pleading until we both screamed and our world exploded in a blinding white light behind my eyes.

  Every inch of my body was on fire. Every breath of air was stolen from my lungs. I wrapped my spent arms around her and pulled her close, coming down, getting our racing hearts under control. We lay like that for a minute, touching each other’s skin, panting, laughing, dying.

  Mia was smiling like a loon as she buried her face against my chest and giggled, “I guess you’re not a virgin anymore!”

  “I love you, Mia.”

  She pulled back to look at me, her eyes wide, disbelieving. “You what?”

  “I love you. I’m an idiot for not seeing it sooner. Because I know you love me, too.” When she opened her mouth to protest, I cut her off with, “Maybe you’re not in love with me, but I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. I’m in love with you and I wanted you to know it.”

  A single tear trickled down her cheek. “No. You were right the first time. I’m in love with you, too.” Her words made me feel more like a man than anything we’d just done to each other. And she wasn’t even done yet. “I thought you were hot from the first second we met. You only got hotter every second since. I lied to myself that I was fine just being your friend. Because you’re right about that, too. We’re great friends. Yeah, I wanted more but you were so busy chasing Paisley that I knew I didn’t stand a chance.”

  I didn’t correct her that time. I didn’t care anymore. I didn’t care about anything except Mia. “I was a complete jerk.”

  “No. You were just... blind.”

  “Not anymore.” My heart stuttered in my chest and my voice sounded like sandpaper as I added, “I can finally see what’s right in front of me. And it’s more beautiful than I could have ever imagined.”

  “But how can you...”

  I cut her off before she could remind me of what a colossal dope I’ve been. “I love your smile and your sarcasm and your bravery. I love how you call me out on my shit. I love how you swear in Spanish when you get angry or scared. I love everything about you.”

  She’d been wearing a small smile that disappeared as she said, “Except my body.”

  “Your body is beautiful,” I said, running my fingers from her shoulder down to her waist before coming to rest on her thigh. “You’re beautiful. Just the way you are.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  I woke up to the steady cadence of Mia’s breathing. Last night, I spent way longer than necessary replaying every moment of what we’d done and said. And afterward, I fell into the deepest sleep of my life. Without nightmares.

  But now, I was wide awake with the woman I loved asleep at my side, trying to sort my thoughts.

  Lucas Atticus Mason.

  I rolled the name around in my brain, trying it on for size. Even knowing that it was what I’d been called for the first twelve years of my life didn’t make it fit.

  A sexy, sultry, sleepy voice interrupted my thoughts. “Mmm. Two whole hours of sleep. I’m gonna be sooo productive today.”

  I sank back down into the bed and threw an arm around her naked middle, pulling her close. “Good morning.”

  She snuggled against my body and said, “Good morning” against my neck.

  I ran my fingertips along her shoulder blade and kissed her hair, causing her to tip her face toward mine, finally opening her eyes.

  She peppered soft kisses under my chin, purring, “Mmm. I thought last night was a dream.”

  “It was.” I could feel her smiling against my jaw as I added, “For you, I mean.”

  She giggled and slapped my chest. “Please. You loved every minute of it.”

  Unable to stop from grinning, I confirmed, “You’re right. I did.”

  “You’re not going to lay any friend bullshit on me this time, right?” I laughed as she added, “Not that I’m complaining, but would you care to tell me how the heck this happened? We kinda glossed over the fact that you showed up at my door crying in the middle of the night.”

  “Too busy fucking to talk, I guess.”

  Mia snickered, but wasn’t going to let me get off that easily. “We can talk now...”

  She was right. She deserved to know what was going on. I pulled her in closer—it was easier to have this conversation when I didn’t have to look at her—and just spilled my guts.

  I told her about my dream and confronting Frederick. How he ‘fessed up about finding me after the accident, and how he brought me to the hospital, and stayed there with me for months, all the while lying to me, letting me believe I was really his. How my real parents had died, and how I couldn’t even remember them, and the sadness, and the guilt, and the anger that followe
d because of it....

  I talked for what felt like hours. The entire time, Mia simply lay by my side and listened, dancing her fingers across my skin, peppering the occasional consoling kiss against my chest. And when I was finally done talking, finally finished relaying every detail about the stupid, fucking, unbelievable drama that was my life, I realized I hadn’t even shed a single tear.

  I wasn’t sad anymore.

  I was pissed.

  She let out with a huge, cleansing breath. “Wow. This is pretty big.”

  Understatement of the century. “Yeah.”

  “So what now? What are you going to do?”

  “I really don’t know.” I exhaled a huge breath and ran a hand through my hair. “I think if I can get some details, this whole thing won’t seem like it’s happening to someone else. I never regretted losing my memory. Not once. But now, it’s all I can think about. I want to remember so bad and it’s frustrating that I can’t.”

  “Maybe you should just accept your present reality. Maybe opening up the past will present too many questions that can’t be answered.”

  “You sound like him, Mia. I need to know who I was. I had parents. They deserve to be remembered. Maybe finding out more about them will help me to do so.”

  * * *

  Mia went into work late and I headed into Jersey. I needed to see the town I was from, needed to feel it.

  I drove through the main drag, smiling at the sentinel of mom-and-pop shops that lined the street: Sweet Norman’s Bakery. The Fill-Your-Belly Deli. Barbie’s Bodacious Boutique. The town could have been Anyplace, USA, and it was jarring to realize it was where I’d come from. I always thought of myself as a city guy. I wondered if I’d walked these sidewalks in my youth, if I’d ever eaten breakfast at the King Neptune Diner, ever spent my allowance at Give Me Candy.

  I started to come to the realization that a small town like this would probably have better information on my parents than any Google search, and turned my car toward the huge clock tower in the center of town.

  Pulling into the lot of Norman’s municipal complex, I found a spot in front of the courthouse. The focal point of the entire site was a humongous boulder, and it looked as though all the surrounding buildings had been built specifically to accentuate it.

  I navigated the winding walkway until I found myself in front of the oversized glass doors of the library, and I wondered if my parents had ever brought me here as a child.

  It was strange to be in a town I lived in for years but that didn’t look familiar to me at all.

  The library’s entrance was huge, with an open-air concept and a domed glass ceiling. Two curved staircases framed the large rotunda and led to a second floor lined with bookshelves. One look at the ground level revealed even more rows of books as far as the eye could see, along with numerous, arched doorways that led into separate, smaller rooms. I walked the perimeter of the main entrance, taking note of the carved, wooden signs above each doorway—past the children’s section, past the reference area—until I found what I was looking for. The Resource Room was located at the back of the building, and from the looks of the lower ceilings and metal shelving back there, made me think it was very possibly part of the original library. A much smaller and way less modern space than the impressively remodeled entrance.

  The woman at the desk smiled as I made my way toward her. “Good morning! You look like you’re a man on a mission. How can I help you?”

  I matched her smile as I checked her nametag. “Good morning, Roberta. I’m looking for any information you might have on Janet and Matthew Mason? Specifically their fatal car crash in April of two-thousand.”

  The woman’s face fell. “Oh, I remember. So sad. Did you know them?”

  I had to think about that for an extra second before I could answer. “No. Not personally. Did you?”

  “I knew of them. Small town, you know,” she said on a wink. “Well, if we have anything, it would be in our archives.”

  She waved her hand for me to follow her, so I trailed on her heels as she led me to a far corner of the room. There were rows and rows of metal shelves, filled with thousands of microfiche files that hadn’t yet been converted to computer.

  “This is every issue of The Norman Gazette published since nineteen-oh-eight.” She scanned down the labels until she came to the section she was looking for. “And here we are. Right here is two-thousand. You said April, yes?”

  “April twentieth. Yes.” I swallowed hard as she pulled a few canisters of the shelf.

  She led me over to a low desk with a bulky monitor where she loaded up the first film. She gave me a quick lesson on how to navigate through the pages before offering a pat on my shoulder. “I’m going to head over to my desk and do some sleuthing online while you scan through the microfiche. It’s a slow day and you look like you could use the help.”

  “Thank you.”

  She left me to my research, and it only took a few minutes before I found the correct paper. It took over the entire front page of The Norman Gazette. Guess it was big news for such a small town.

  NORMAN COUPLE IN FATAL TRAFFIC ACCIDENT

  Two Norman residents were killed in a traffic collision with a Freehold Shipping truck at 9:50 PM Wednesday night on Main Avenue at the intersection of Anthony Road. Weather conditions were severe.

  The couple’s car was determined to be driving at or near the speed limit, authorities say.

  Matthew Mason, 45, and Janet Mason, 45, were killed instantly.

  Their twelve-year-old son was a passenger in the vehicle. He remains in critical condition at Hackensack University Hospital.

  The driver of the truck, Marcus Geist, was treated at Norman General for minor injuries. He was not under the influence of any substances at the time of the accident.

  Two separate photos of my parents were embedded within the article, and I stared at the images of their smiling faces. It was hard to make out any detail—the pictures were small, on grainy newspulp, and the microfiche monitor wasn’t exactly designed for optimum clarity. There was a third, larger photo at the bottom of the page—a semi-truck turned on its side surrounded by caution tape and the flashing lights of the surrounding emergency vehicles.

  But I couldn’t see the car that well, thankfully.

  I scanned through a few more pages, but didn’t find a follow-up story in any future papers. I did, however, find my parents’ obituary:

  MASON, Janet and Matthew

  Mr. Matthew Thomas Mason and his wife, Janet Faith Mason (nee Coffey) of Norman were accepted by the Lord on April 20, 2000.

  Matthew (b. 1/31/55), originally from Brooklyn, NY, was a regional sales manager for MetLife in New York City for over twenty years.

  Janet (b. 11/11/54), a Norman native, was a beloved teacher in the English department of St. Nicetius Parochial High School. She received the Teacher of the Year award last spring, her third such honor in her twenty-three years as an educator.

  Matthew and Janet were married on December 8, 1985.

  Both Matthew and Janet were active members of their community. Matthew was co-chair of the Norman Department of Recreation as well as contributor to the Parks Department. Janet served on the board of The Norman Society. She is best known for spearheading the Beautification Project in 1991 which raised the funds necessary to facelift the downtown area.

  They are survived by Matthew’s mother, Emily, and their son, Lucas, also of Norman.

  Services will be held from 4 to 8 PM at Malachi Bros. Funeral Home on April 24, 2000.

  Funeral mass will be held at 10 AM at St. Nicetius Chapel on April 25.

  They will be laid to rest at Christ Memorial Gardens immediately following the church service.

  In lieu of flowers, please consider a donation to The American Stroke Association.

  My breath hitched as my throat tightened. My parents had been lain out and buried and I wasn’t even there. I hoped there were tons of people there to mourn them. I hoped they weren’t
forgotten.

  Roberta came back just then so I was forced to pull myself together. “Oh, you found it!” she said, leaning over to scan her eyes over the document on the monitor. “Would you like me to print it out for you?”

  “Yes. Thank you,” I said through a scratchy throat. “Could you print this one too, please?” I scrolled back to the accident report as Roberta readily agreed.

  “I was able to find a few articles online, if you’d like to see them.”

  “I would. Thank you.”

  Roberta sent the microfiche articles to the printer before leading me back to her desk. As the new pages churned out of the printer, she handed me a few sheets she’d already printed out.

  The very first one was a picture of my mother and an older man flanking a teenage girl, the happy threesome holding a plaque between them. I checked the caption on the photo:

  1990 Creative Writing Award recipient Layla Warren (middle) pictured with her father Kenneth (l) and her instructor, 1990 Teacher of the Year Janet Mason (r).

  Wait. Kenneth Warren? The husband Kate left behind to be with my father? Shock reached out a cold dead hand and wrapped around my throat. I couldn’t breathe.

  I looked into the face of the teenage girl in the picture. She was wearing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Guilt washed over me, but I had no idea why. It’s not like I was the one responsible for her abandonment.

  Frederick was.

  In any case, this Layla person obviously knew my mother. I found my voice enough to ask Roberta, “Do you happen to know Layla Warren?”

  “Of course. She’s in here all the time. She’s Layla Wilmington now, though.” She put extra emphasis on the last name, which I guess was supposed to mean something. It didn’t.

  “Do you know where I can find her?”