by Logan Belle
Now or Never (A Last Chance Romance)
Logan Belle
Moxie Books
New York, NY
Now or Never (A Last Chance Romance) A novel by Logan Belle.
Copyright © 2013 by Logan Belle/Jamie Brenner. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Published as an e-book October 2013 by Moxie Books.
Visit www.LoganBelle.com for more about the author.
Cover design by [email protected]
Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9888355-6-6
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 1
“We are asleep until we fall in love.” — Tolstoy
This is the last place I expected to be. At least not now, at age forty, with my son finally off to college. My friends all say this is going to be the best decade of my life. Time to live it up. Time, after eighteen years of single motherhood, to enjoy myself. Or, as my best friend Patti says, maybe even time to actually “meet someone.” Not that I need that kind of drama.
But now the drama has come in another form. I’m not happy about it, but tonight I’m trying to deal with it.
I wander through the basement of the Ardmore YMCA. It’s mid-September, but this hallway is hot and humid. Fanning myself with the paperback I’m reading for my book club, I look around for a clue where I should be going.
Voices come from the first room on my left. I approach cautiously, as if proximity will suck me into some support-group vortex from which I’ll never escape.
I peek inside. A woman stands in front of the crowd seated in metal folding chairs. There’s no sign on the door, but I suppose people want some measure of privacy. What did I expect? A big pink sign asking, “Got Breast Cancer?”
I slip in quietly and take a seat near the back. The room erupts into encouraging applause for whoever just spoke. Oh god, I hope participation isn’t mandatory. I certainly don’t want to say anything. Not sure I even want to hear anything.
An elderly woman walks to the front of the room. She must be pushing ninety. Well, she’s made it this far. I guess I should be heartened by that.
Her thin, frail hand adjusts the microphone stand. Someone rushes up to help her. She glances at a sheet of paper she holds in front of her, and her hand reveals a slight tremor. Okay, I tell myself. This is going to be depressing. But look at her. She’s a survivor!
The room is absolutely quiet. I feel around the inside of my handbag for a tissue.
Finally, she speaks.
“His cock was unlike anything I’d seen. Thick, veiny, an untamed beast waiting for my touch.”
What the hell is going on here? I look around the room waiting for someone to jump up and escort the poor woman to her seat. Clearly, she’s battling dementia as well as breast cancer. But no one moves. In fact, now that I really look, everyone is smiling in encouragement. And this woman, in all her trembling handed, white-haired glory, shows no sign of slowing down.
“He was a stranger — strange eyes, strange lips, strange hands on my breasts, rough with need, as he pressed his hardness between my legs and entered me.”
“Oh my god,” I breathe. What alternate universe have I walked into that she is allowed to go on?
This is a sign. I should never have come here. I will deal with my diagnosis like I’ve dealt with everything — on my own.
As I stand to leave, the woman concludes her pornographic tale. The rest of the room stands as well. Not to leave, but to give a standing ovation.
An ovation which I, apparently, initiated by leaving my seat.
“She’s amazing, isn’t she?” says the woman to my left. Round and pleasant looking, she reminds me of my Aunt Myrna.
“Um, yeah,” I say. That’s one word for it. Shocking might be another. Inappropriate, if I were to get judgmental. Which I absolutely am not.
In college, I loved sex as much as anyone. Maybe more. I was an ambitious Poli Sci major, but after being serious and focused all through high school, for the first time in my life, I felt a little boy crazy. I lost my virginity freshman year. I went through a steady rotation of boyfriends until I fell in love for the first time at the end of sophomore year.
By second semester junior year, I was pregnant.
I never did get that Poli Sci degree.
A middle aged woman in a flowing floral dress takes to the microphone. She’s beaming at the spicy senior, and says, “Thank you, Helen. As usual, your work leaves us wanting more!” She consults a slip of paper. “Next up, April.”
A woman about my age walks to the front of the room. She looks great in a pair of faded skinny jeans I would never attempt to wear. But she pulls it off. She adjusts the microphone, bringing it up to meet her height. She’s wearing treacherously high-heeled boots.
“Hey, y’all,” she says in a southern accent. “I’m continuing the story of Derek and Sue-Ann. So strap yourselves in.”
Someone hoots from the back of the room. What is going on here?
I turn to my neighbor. “Excuse me,” I say, breaking into a cold sweat. “Is this the breast cancer support group?”
The woman smiles. “No, hon. That’s down the hall. This is the Erotic Reading Salon.”
“Oh, oh my god. I’m sorry.” I gather my bag and get up to leave. The woman puts her hand on my arm.
“It’s none of my business, hon. But I’d bet this is a lot more fun.”
She’s right about that. Do I really want to think about breast cancer right now?
I sit back down.
April begins reading, and she has a smile on her face. “Fucking her ex-husband had never been hotter. If someone had told her how much better the sex would be after they divorced, she never would have put up such a big fight. Now, all he wants is to eat her pussy. Tonight, she’s sitting on the kitchen counter, one hand on the metal sink faucet to steady herself, the other in Derek’s hair as his tongue teases her clit.”
I look at this woman in amazement. How can she be so nonchalant talking about this stuff? It’s been a long time since I’ve even thought about it. And while it’s interesting to hear sex talked about so freely, this reader’s sex-with-her-ex scenario is ironically the biggest turn-off I can imagine. It’s because of my ex-husband walking out— leaving me with very little money and a small child — that I haven’t had time or interest in sex for the past decade.
“His strong hands grip her thighs, pulling her closer, serving her wet cunt to his greedy mouth. She moans as his tongue strokes her lips, light as a feather. She slides one hand down his back, her nails pressing into his skin, a meager protest as he makes her beg for it. All she can think of is his cock, but he won’t give it to her until she comes first in his mouth. She moans louder as his tongue pierces her center, going deep, in and out until she forgets all about his cock. She forgets everything except the excruciating pleasure…”
Have I thought about being wanted, being touche
d? Sure. Especially the first few years after my husband left. But then I convinced myself I wasn’t missing out on anything. I resisted the pressure to date. What was I looking for? More inevitable heartache and disappointment? No, thank you. I have my wonderful son. And that’s enough.
*** ***
After the reading, everyone moves upstairs to the coffee room.
I feel slightly shell-shocked by all the “sharing,” as the host of the readings calls it. I’m not ready to make small-talk, as everyone else seems eager to do.
The room is crowded. The breast cancer group must have funneled into here as well. How am I going to explain to my best friend, Patti, that I didn’t go? I promised her I would at least give it a try.
A single row of fold-up tables sit along the back wall, lined with towers of Styrofoam cups, regular and decaf coffee, and boxes of Dunkin Donuts.
“I can’t keep eating these donuts every week,” says a young woman I recognize from the reading group. “I’m going to have to work out tomorrow.”
Her name is Karina, I think. She sports short blond hair, a nose ring, and a multitude of tattoos creeping out from under her tank top — a tank that displays a perfect body. She’s worried about eating a donut? Wait until she hits forty. There isn’t a workout in the world that fights gravity.
Karina read second to last, a story about the time she met a guy on an online fetish site and they met up at a hotel, where he blindfolded her, tied her up, and she “sucked his cock” for an hour before leaving. The two never spoke. I had the distinct impression this tale was not fiction. Probably because she prefaced her reading with, “This is just something that happened last week. It’s still not very polished.”
“Excuse me. I just need to get one of those chocolate glazed over there.” A young guy reaches around me to the donuts. Well, younger than me. Mid-thirties, maybe. He has thick light brown hair that’s slightly mussed, like he just rolled out of bed. And it just gets better from there, high cheekbones and a straight-bridged, perfect nose — chiseled features usually reserved for the photos of fantasy men my friends send around, cluttering up my Facebook wall.
He must be here for the breast cancer group, keeping some lucky gal company. Well, not lucky to have breast cancer. But certainly a boyfriend who looks like him must be some consolation.
My doctor told me it’s important to have a supportive partner. I told him believe me, this is not the first event in my life where I wished I had a supportive partner.
“Want one?” the guy asks.
“Excuse me?”
“A donut?”
“Okay, sure. Thanks,” I say. He hands me a sticky pastry and a napkin.
“I only come for the free food,” he says. He has devastating blue eyes.
I smile. “It’s amazing that you’re here. Really.”
“Not really.”
“Oh, it is,” I say, feeling a rush of emotion. “I’m sure your support means everything to her.”
“To her?”
“Aren’t you here for the breast cancer support group?” Oh no. I suddenly feel incredibly stupid, and I feel myself blush. But he hadn’t been at the Erotic Reading Salon. I would have noticed.
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I go to AA.”
I look around the room. “How many groups meet here?”
He shrugs. “Dunno. Which one are you here for?”
That should be my cue to end the conversation. It’s none of his business. “Maybe the group I’m meeting with is supposed to be anonymous, too,” I say. It comes out much more flirtatious than I intend.
He smiles, I notice his dimples. Okay, this guy is officially swoon-worthy. Get a grip on yourself, Claire.
“Fair enough,” he says. “I’m Justin.” He holds out his hand.
I switch my donut to my other hand so I can shake. His hand is enormous, and when it closes around mine, I feel a little breathless.
A commotion behind us turns both our heads. A few feet away, a man shouts at Karina, knocking over a chair or two in the process.
“I’m not interested, you crazy old fuck,” she says.
The “old” comment surprises me. The guy is no where near forty, I would bet on that. He has a husky build and is wearing a Phillies baseball cap.
“I’ve heard you talking all that sex talk,” the guy says.
“Yeah, well I wasn’t talking to you, perv.”
Justin moves quickly, standing between the two. “Aaron, man, what are you doing here? You weren’t at the meeting,” he says to the guy.
“Just talking to my friend here,” he says, leering at Karina. “She don’t mind. She’s in the sex group anyway.”
“It’s not a sex group, asshole,” Karina says.
“Man, let it go,” Justin says calmly. “Come on. Don’t do this. I’ll walk you out.” Justin has his hand on the guys back, and I hear him say something about “sponsor” even though he’s lowered his voice now that the crisis is over.
He leads the guy out of the room. I am surprised at how disappointed I am to see him go.
I look at the donut in my hand and drop it into the nearest trashcan.
Chapter 2
My entire street is dark when I pull up to my house. Eleven o’clock is an hour my neighbors rarely see. I’m the young whipper snapper on a block full of retirees. I’m not sure how this happened, but I’m not complaining. The neighborhood is safe and quiet and decidedly lacking in the nosy drama in some suburban enclaves. My home is one of the few things I’ve never had any regrets about.
While my parents weren’t exactly emotionally supportive when I ended up a broke, single mother at age twenty-four, they did help with the down-payment on the three-bedroom, white colonial. It was a gesture of generosity that changed my life — a place to raise my son.
It feels different now that Max is gone. Sometimes, I feel nervous coming home to an empty house. Even though Max didn’t spend much time at home by the end of last school year, the fact that he lived here was still a comfort. Now there’s a strange quiet to the place, an unsettling void that I fill by turning on lots of lights and the television every time I walk in the door.
“Oh! You’re out here now, you rascal.” I nearly trip over the tuxedo kitten sitting on my front steps. It showed up a month ago at my back door, a few times a week. I tried to ignore it, but during a violent rainstorm one night I felt so sorry for it, I opened the garage door and put out tuna and fresh water. That, as they say, was the end of that. The cat never left again. Now I feel responsible for it. And I’m alarmed to see her — I’m convinced it’s a her — in the front yard. She could wander into the street and get hit by a car.
She follows me to the edge of my front door, as if she’s coming inside.
“I have my boundaries.” With a pang of guilt, I close the door on her small white face. Just what I need, something else to feel badly about.
I turn on all the lights in the living room, along with the TV, and walk straight through to the kitchen for a can of tuna. I open the back door, and tap a spoon against her glass bowl. Sure enough, she trots back and eagerly dips her head into her dinner.
“Stay here, in the backyard.” I duck inside, wash my hands, and shake my head at the idiocy of getting emotionally involved with a stray animal. Then I plop myself in front of the television.
I flip to the cooking channel and find a repeat of Chopped. They are opening the dessert basket — my favorite part. But even the crazy ingredients —kale, Wonder Bread, lychee, and orange sorbet — can’t get my mind off the reading salon, and the kinky things those women wrote.
Even when I was young and attractive, my sex life had been pretty vanilla.
I enjoyed sex and never felt self-conscious about my body. I wasn’t Sports Illustrated swimsuit model material, but in my twenties, I had a decent body.
What is it about turning forty that makes everything seem to instantly droop a quarter of an inch? My breasts, my ass. The inside of my thighs are in cons
tant contact these days. And heaven forbid I look at what’s going on with my elbows. Is this physical downslide real? Or am I imagining it after years of being unwanted and untouched?
The women tonight certainly did not seem to feel undesirable. Are their stories fiction? Personal experience? I don’t know.
The question leaves me rattled.
*** ***
In the morning, standing behind the Chanel counter at Macy’s department store, I feel peaceful, in control of my little universe of color and skin care. I like the order of my day. Opening the register, checking the product log to make sure what I sold yesterday is in sync with what I have in the bays and countertop. I enjoy talking to my regulars. And I like seeing new faces walk in the door, women I can introduce to a smudge-proof eyeliner or better matching foundation.
When I moved back into my parent’s home, divorced and unemployed with a toddler, I didn’t have many employment options. I’d worked at make-up counters during high school as a part-time and summer job. I never imagined it would turn out to be my lifelong career. But it’s worked out just fine.
I’ve heard that lipstick is one of the few recession-proof items, and I believe it. Through the years, I’ve seen lean times hit the designer shoe department hard. I’ve seen the handbag department — directly across from the cosmetics department — get very quiet for weeks at a time. But my customers never disappear.
Friday afternoons are busy at the Macy’s Ardmore, Pennsylvania. It’s the anchor store in Suburban Square shopping center, directly across from the free parking lot. It’s often people’s first stop on the way to other errands.
Twenty years ago, when I started as a part-timer selling make-up at the Prescriptives counter, this store wasn’t Macy’s. It was the family-owned department store Strawbridge & Clothier. Now Prescriptives is out of business, and Strawbridges no longer exists. But I’m still here.
