by Tasha Fawkes
Craig Bressen and I went way back, having met in junior high school. Craig was one of the few people I got along with; not because I was especially difficult to get along with, but rather because I didn't trust people. Mainly because of my father, and maybe because I still struggled with authority. I had been a rebellious youth when Craig and I had met, and to some degree, I still was. Constantly questioning. Not bucking the system per se, but a desire to try different avenues to gain the ultimate results. Both of us had mellowed somewhat; after all, we were adults now. Pushing closer to thirty. Still, lots of fun still to be had.
I should be inside now, likely with a lady on my lap, feeling her up and not caring who watched. I never formed attachments to the women I slept with. My ingrained mistrust of people's intentions was a big part of that. I didn't have to worry about that with Craig. We understood each other. Still, Craig had a way of dragging me into situations that could be interesting, if not problematic. I didn't really care, as everyone needs to let off steam once in a while, right?
I'd already gotten a few and not exactly vague invitations for a quick lay tonight, but wasn't really in the mood. It'd been a long week, it was late, and I knew that I was more wasted than sober. I frowned, envisioning the ocean a couple of streets over, the waves lapping gently against the beach, the sound soothing even though I couldn't hear it. The only thing that stopped me from walking toward the beach at that moment was—
"There you are!"
I turned to find Craig walking toward me, an exasperated look on his face.
"What the hell are you doing? You're supposed to be my wing man!"
I smiled and shrugged. "I just needed some fresh air."
"I thought tonight was only going to be about fun and indulgence, but I can bet you a hundred bucks right this minute you're thinking about work, aren't you?"
"Pay up." I grinned. "Not work. Actually, I was thinking about how much I wanted to walk down to the beach and take off my shoes and socks, roll up my pants, and get my feet wet."
He shook his head, his face lit up by the nightclub marquee. Craig was my opposite in regard to appearance. Where I stood over six feet, he stood at five-feet-ten. While I was bulky and muscular, in part due to genetics and one to two-hour workouts that I could squeak in during the week, Craig was lean, but strong and wiry. Thanks to my Irish heritage, I had been endowed with my mother's light-toned skin and smattering of freckles along my cheekbones, though I had inherited my father's hazel eyes, broad forehead, and thick eyebrows. Craig's profile was as lean as his body; chiseled and angular, with prominent cheekbones and chin and pale blue-gray eyes that garnered him more than a few double-takes from the ladies.
"You know why you haven't had any luck tonight?" Craig asked, also turning to look toward the west and the ocean.
"Because I don't feel like it?"
He shook his head. "Because you look like a grumpy bear."
I made a face. "For one, you've never seen a bear, and for two, what does a grumpy bear look like?"
"Details," Craig scoffed. "You do remember the Care Bears, don't you? Shit, my sister had all of them. And you're Grumpy Bear. It's an expression, Scott. Let's just say your dour expression isn't exactly enticing the ladies."
I shrugged, not really caring. It wasn't like Craig needed me as his wing man. Not only was he handsome in his own right, but he had a pleasant, easy-going personality, unlike mine. Not that I went around like a grumpy bear all day, but I was a bit more serious, more introverted than Craig. Plus, I was frustrated. About? Everything: work, family relationships, no decent love life; not that I was in an emotional or mental place to where I had the energy to make a relationship work.
When I wasn't working, I relaxed in my mansion only a short distance away up PCH. My home—some called it a mansion—sat on a cliff overlooking the ocean. Sometimes I would take my car and drive up the coast to Carmel, and if I had more than a day to myself, I liked taking some of the local wine tours available further north in Napa. Once, I had even gone to Disneyland, all by myself, trying to enjoy the transient escape that the sights, sounds, and smells that the happiest place on Earth tried to invoke within me. Trying being the key word there.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not a sourpuss all the time. I have a good sense of humor, I'm easy-going and friendly most of the time, to a point. Away from work, and typical of tonight, I usually did enjoy making the rounds of the nightclubs, the hookups, and the occasional lay.
"Did you and your dad lock horns again today?"
The one thing about having a best friend, and feeling comfortable enough, and trust them enough, and like them enough to confide in them, is that they knew most of your dark, deep secrets. Most of them. Craig was no stranger to the strained relationship between me and my dad. The almighty Michael Holbrook, chairman of Holbrook Property Corporation, a billion-dollar property investment company. I was the CEO, more by reluctant default than anything else. Why had my dad given me the position when we were all but estranged and could barely be in the same room together without tension?
I believed it was out of guilt. His guilt, not mine. My dad and I had never had the opportunity to reach one of those father-son relationships. He was in and out of my life so much when I was growing up that I only saw him once a week at most. Not only was he an absent father, but, as I discovered later, a philandering one. Of course, my mother had never said anything about that, but when I was about thirteen and playing hooky from school one day, I was just walking around downtown and saw him walking into a hotel, hand-in-hand with a woman who was definitely not my mother.
Out of a morbid sense of curiosity, I found and sat on a bus stop bench across the street and a little ways down, waiting to see when he would come out. An hour later, he did. The woman went one way, he went the other, straightening his tie as he walked down the sidewalk toward a parking structure nearby.
Another time, one of those rare occasions when my dad did come home, I had managed a peek at his day planner. He'd left it in his office, the extra room he had designated as his space, where he was never to be disturbed. I quickly glanced through the leather-bound book and saw that he had regular appointments on a weekly basis with a woman named Felicity. Just Felicity. And who was she? Just one of many first-name-only women he had jotted down in his schedule book. He didn't even bother to hide it.
My curiosity had burgeoned and one time, when I was around sixteen and enjoying Christmas vacation from school, I even followed him around for nearly a week in my car. I had lost count with a number of women he cavorted with just during my school holiday. I wasn't sure if they were prostitutes, high-class escorts, or actually women he was having long-term affairs with.
After that vacation, I had stopped following him. He lost my respect and told myself I really didn't care. My mom and I got along just fine without him. Did she know? Probably. They got divorced by the time I graduated from high school. I realized then that they'd just been biding time, for whatever reason; as if it really mattered.
Whatever. He could do whatever he wanted with his dick. He might be my biological father, but anyone could be a sperm donor, right? He'd never been a "Dad". My mom lived out in Simi Valley now, on a small ranch just outside of Thousand Oaks, about eighty-five miles away. On a good day without bumper-to-bumper traffic and sticking close to the speed limit, it generally took one and one-half hours to drive. I visited her relatively often, but not out of obligation. I got along well with my mom, and enjoyed spending time with her when I could get away for a decent visit. She was busy with her friends, actively involved in a variety of community groups throughout the region from Calabasas to Moorpark.
My dad now lived in a custom-built home in Santiago Canyon, about twenty miles due east of downtown Orange, which put him at just about thirty miles away. I rarely made the short drive to his house. The property investment company was located in downtown Irvine, making an easy commute for both of us. Most anything we had to discuss with one another was done at the compan
y, which was just fine by me.
"What was it about this time?"
Craig's question broke into my thoughts. I shrugged. I couldn't remember. Nevertheless, I'd found myself feeling disgruntled this evening, although I still couldn't put my finger on exactly what had me so agitated.
"Come on, let's go back inside. Just for a little while, then I'll cut you loose."
I knew what Craig wanted. He wanted to pick up a one-night stand. More often than not, I did as well. We'd meander our way back to my mansion or a nice hotel where we indulged, more often than not taking the girls back to the club when we were done partying. I didn't let anyone I brought home stay overnight. Sometimes, I called them a cab.
I sighed and followed Craig back inside the club, my ears once again barraged with the steady thump of the techno-music beat, grimacing slightly at the strobe lights, my nose wrinkling at the smell of pot floating from one of the corners. We stopped at the bar where Craig ordered a bourbon for himself and a Scotch for me. I knew that this one would take me from buzzed to drunk, but not staggering drunk; just the kind of drunk that allows you to cast caution to the wind, which is what I might need tonight.
I followed Craig as he wound his way through the crowd toward the opposite corner of the club floor, away from the swarming heat of gyrating bodies in the middle of the room. I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned; my frown of annoyance disappeared as I found myself peering down at a lovely young woman staring up at me, a smile on her red lips. The room was fairly dark in places the strobe lights didn't quite reach, and I thought she looked familiar, but for several moments I couldn't place her. Then I realized why. She was dressed differently than I was used to seeing her, her features nearly disguised by heavy-handed mascara and luminescent lavender eye shadow that clashed with the fire-engine red lipstick.
Kristin Bruno, daughter of one of my dad's close friends and business associates. I held back a grimace, surprised to see her here, in a nightclub, at one o'clock in the morning. She'd been sheltered and more than a little pampered growing up. Suffice it to say that I always thought of her as a spoiled brat. She was three years younger than me, but from the moment we were introduced in my late teens, she had made obvious advances toward me. At first, I played dumb, but later, when the advances became obvious, I changed tactics. Bluntness usually worked, but not with Kristin. I always turned her down, but the more I snubbed her, the more determined she became to latch on to me.
"What're you drinking?"
Why did she care? "Scotch," I said. At that moment, something inside me shifted. Looking back on it, I wondered if my decision had been made out of spite. Against my dad, against my frustration, against my disillusionment with my life. She wasn't my type. I preferred women who offered me more of a mental challenge, but taking in her short dress with its plunging neckline, exposing plump—real—breasts, I figured, what the hell? This is where the "making stupid decisions" part comes in.
I knew what Kristin was doing, which was what she'd always done, coming on to me, literally batting her mascara-clogged eyelashes at me, thrusting her breasts a little closer toward me. She probably wouldn't be a bad lay. I made the decision to take advantage of what she offered. I turned to give Craig a look. He understood immediately and nodded, knowing that he would be on his own to find a ride home. I was just buzzed enough to not think twice about what I was doing. I didn't stop to think that maybe my caving in to Kristin's come-hither looks and suggestive body language might be a subtle way of taking a dig at my father. And provoking—if he found out—a "how dare you sleep with my friend's daughter" kind of response.
I shrugged, gazed down at Kristin, who looked rather surprised as I held out my elbow for her. With a triumphant smile, she latched onto my arm, pulling it close so that my forearm brushed up against her breast. I was sure she did that on purpose. She walked so close to me as I exited the nightclub that you couldn't pry us apart with a shoe horn. I hailed a cab to take us back to my mansion. Along the way, Kristin talked nonstop. How coincidental it was that we bumped into each other at the same nightclub, what she'd been doing the past year since I'd seen her last, stuff that I could barely keep up with or cared about.
I had one thing on my mind. One good fuck. One good lay might be enough to take the edge off my dissatisfaction and frustration with my life, at least for this week. If Kristin was willing, who was I to deny her?
I hovered over Kristin, my gaze traveling down her naked body. She was in good shape, and all her parts were real. Her large breasts drooped only slightly to the side—gravity—their nipples engorged and extended toward me, still slick and wet from what I had just done to them with my tongue.
Her moans of pleasure were a little over the top, or at least I believed so. I knew how to please a woman, and was more than capable of eliciting moans and growls of pleasure, but hers seemed… well, as if she were trying to broadcast what we were doing to the occupants of the neighboring room, they were that loud.
I paused, balancing my weight on my hands, my knees tucked between her legs, spread open below me. I watched, my head pounding, my vision swimming a little as she slid one delicate white hand between her breasts, down her abdomen, and then toward her slit. She fingered herself for a moment, dipped a finger inside her slit and then withdrew it, circling it around the head of my engorged dick.
"What are you waiting for?" she purred, eyes half-closed, a smile turning up the corners of her mouth. "The water's just fine."
Her lipstick had smeared, leaving traces of red on my cock. Her mascara had smudged, and some of the glittery eyeshadow had somehow been rubbed away, a streak of it emblazoned on her cheekbone.
I felt a wave of dizziness, hesitated for a moment, thinking I shouldn’t be doing this. Not this way. I should stop. I had enough sense to think it, but not enough sense to actually make myself do it. I wanted to slow things down a little, to get a cover on… Her hand wrapped gently around my cock, guided it into position, and then she lifted her hips upward. My brain shut down and my dick took over. I plunged inside. I pumped, my hips rocking, while she also lifted her hips and gyrated slightly, her hands grabbing my ass and trying to pull me in deeper. We couldn't quite seem to match our rhythm, but I was too far gone at that point to care.
In three more hard thrusts, I heard her moan accelerate; her head thrown back, her breasts arched toward me as I took her over the edge. Moments later, I allowed myself to follow.
Two
Megan
It was turning into one of those gorgeous Southern California mornings: crisp, clear, only a few dots of white, puffy clouds and an incredibly blue sky. Thank you, ocean breeze. The sounds of vendors at the early morning farmers’ market preparing their stalls, chatting among themselves, and laughter floated around me. Aromas assaulted my senses, but in a good way; the pastries at our booth, the scent of fresh tomatoes and sweet corn, green peppers and the earthy scent of radishes from the stall next to us, comforting in their familiarity. I couldn't help but take a moment and take it all in. I tried to appreciate the moment, knowing that I didn't do it often enough, but that's what happens when you're so busy trying to eke out a living.
It's just another Saturday morning for me, helping my mother as we set up our stall at the weekly farmers’ market in the parking lot of the Bill Barber Memorial Park in Irvine. It was a perfect location, really. In the summertime, Little League and Pony League games, soccer matches, and picnickers brought plentiful crowds to the park. It was convenient too, located not too far from our one-bedroom apartment a few blocks away. While our apartment building was not exactly considered Section 8 housing, it was a low-income, nearly forty-years-old and rather bland-looking stucco structure without the benefits of air-conditioning, patios, or balconies. Unfortunately, even with our combined incomes, it was all we could afford.
Then again, I shouldn't really complain. We were getting by. I knew that we were a lot better off than a lot of people in the region, and while after paying our rent, utilities,
the grocery bill, and putting gas in our cars, there wasn't much left over, there were lots of things we could do around here that didn't cost any money. Personally, I liked to drive down to the beach, just to hang out. I knew a spot a couple blocks away where I could park my old Honda Accord without having to pay for it.
On the rare occasions where my mom, Anne, had a night off work and wasn't too tired, and the weather was nice, we went to one of the few drive-in theaters that still operated in the area for their Classic Movies Night. Once a month, the old drive-in played the good old black-and-white movies with Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn, Humphrey Bogart, and Spencer Tracy, just a few of my favorites.
If we had a little bit of extra money left over after paying our bills, or if there was an opportunity to cater, I also took advantage of a number of cultural events and wine festivals in Orange County. So it wasn't all work and no play. More often than not however, I indulged in my self-treats alone, as my mom found idleness wasteful. To tell you the truth, I think I was just a cover-up though, for her emotional wounds. She kept pretty much to herself, had no friends—acquaintances only—but she seemed okay with that.
It had been nearly a decade since my dad died, but she had never really recovered from the incident. Well, she's put on a good front, but I knew. After my dad died, and pushing her mid-forties with no work history, she had realized that she was practically unemployable, with no skills to speak of. She nevertheless put in an application at one of the local long-term care nursing facilities and they told her if she signed a two-year commitment, they would pay for her schooling so she could obtain her license as a certified nursing assistant.
She'd worked there ever since, and while she did enjoy working with the residents, it was hard on her, physically and emotionally. She wasn't a spring chicken anymore, and the physical and mental demands of the job wore her down.
