“It’s okay,” she added, “I’m okay.”
“Good,” I said, “Make sure you give your feelings a chance.”
She looked at me and giggled. “Yes, counselor!” she joked.
I laughed and pushed her playfully backward on the sofa. She grabbed hold of my wrist and pulled me right on top of her.
“That’s better,” she said and pressed her lips against mine again.
I found her tongue and entwined mine with hers.
“Can’t a guy have a coffee in peace!” I heard Gabe’s voice from the kitchen.
I levered myself up straight and laughed. He and Marion started laughing too, as we got up and joined him at the kitchen island.
“How about a good healthy fry up for breakfast!” he said.
“Sure, if you’re making, little bro!” Marion teased him and ruffled his short hair.
“Stop that!” he complained.
I rested my elbows on the counter and looked from the one to the other.
“Definitely brother and sister!” I declared and chuckled.
Chapter 7
Gabe looked very smart in his tailor-made beige suit and tie, which he fidgeted with. I smacked his hand.
“Argh, come on! Do I have to wear it!” he said.
I glared at him playfully.
“Okay, okay,” he said, “Just don’t shoot me!”
I punched him lightly on the arm.
“At least we don’t have to wear shoes!” I replied.
The weather was perfect. It was overcast but there was no rain, yet. If it could just hold out until after the ceremony, it would be great.
We were back at Uncle Andrei’s cabin, six months later. We were not alone, though. All our close friends and the boys from the home were there. Andrei had even managed to track down my father for the occasion. I was mad as hell at Andrei first, but then Marion said, it was time to give my father another chance.
Now he stood with Marion linked to his arm. He had cleaned up good! His face was clean shaven, his graying hair, trimmed neatly and his fitted suit made him look quite handsome. I smiled.
He had been honored to be invited to his daughter’s wedding, and even more so when Marion asked him if he’d give her away. He had wiped away a tear.
He wiped away another tear now, down on the beach front. I watched as he let Marion step closer to me on the soft beach sand.
I looked at her dress, hanging down in points, like a fairy. It suited her perfectly. It was an off-white color and the material looked like antique lace. She had a pink flower tucked behind her ear and matching pink lipstick. All I wanted to do was pull her close and kiss her.
I looked back at the boys in the front row and at Gabe, on my right. He had been grinning nonstop the whole morning.
The ceremony was short and soon the moment arrived that I had been waiting for.
“You may now kiss the bride!”
I didn’t need to be told twice. I bent down, lifted her up in my arms and kissed her luscious lips as I twirled her around.
The crowd cheered and threw popcorn at us as we headed back towards the house. When we came outside again, after signing the documents, it began to rain. I pulled Marion towards cover, but she tugged me out into the downpour. She got onto the tips of her toes, wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me as the rain soaked us and most of the wedding party. She pulled back after a few seconds and I looked into her green eyes. She was the one I had been waiting for my whole life!
Private Investigator
~ Bonus Story ~
A Thriller & Suspense Lesbian Romance
Chloe
She’s too smart for her own good. We had a perfectly good chance at happily ever after and she threw it away before it could spoil. Before being the operative word, meaning there was nothing rotten about it! Let’s see how she handles a situation that, unlike our relationship, actually is fraught and perilous! Will she fight for us now that our lives are on the line?
Hannah
I’m a woman with a plan. My life makes sense. My decisions are based on logic and calculation; letting go of Chloe was the hardest decision I ever had to make. I never thought I’d have to revisit it under life and death circumstances. Now I’m afraid I can’t avoid finding out how much she really means to me. What if it’s more than I can afford?
* * *
Chloe
A cloud of dust lifts off the bedspread when I throw my suitcase down. Wrinkling my nose, I pick the suitcase up again and lay it on the floor instead so that I can pull the blanket off. Stepping onto the front stoop of the little cabin, I give the blanket a good shake to removes as much dust as possible. The sun has set and even Northern California is cold at night, especially in the higher elevations. I always loved this cabin, the serenity of having no close neighbors and the perspective that comes with elevation. I need that now, both the serenity and the perspective, to help me feel a little less like a pathetic, kicked dog who has crawled back to its kennel to lick its wounds and more like a lofty visionary, come to my mountain sanctuary to work on my next novel. At least the last part is true. Giving the bedspread a few more violent, unnecessary thwacks against the porch railing, thereby dislodging the last of the dust and some of the stitching from the blanket, I turn back inside to unpack and get the cabin in order.
I like to set myself up for success. Tomorrow, I intend to wake up and immediately begin working. If the cabin isn’t tidy and comfortable, I will not be able to concentrate. So, I spend the evening sweeping out the dust and putting my possessions in their rightful places: hanging a threadbare yellow towel on the hook in the bathroom and, on the bureau, propping a small, framed photograph of myself as a baby, cooing in the arms of my big brother who is all of 5 years old in the photo. I smile every time I see that photo. I catch sight of my face in the mirror above my dresser. Even my slight smile looks sad and my green eyes appear tired beneath my short, sandy blond hair. Some part of me believes that putting my cabin in order will put my life back together too. But Hannah is as intractable as she is beloved and as infuriating as she is gone from my life. I should be relieved, but I’m just angry and heartbroken.
I go through the motions of being a functional human being, but Hannah lingers always at the back, or front, of my mind. Who am I kidding? She’s front and center always. I have long, frustrating conversations with her in my head in which I find just the right combination of words to break through her analytical armor. What good is logic in the face of love? I am a writer; uncertainty is a constant and I have no qualms with holding contradictory ideas in my head at any given time. Truth is relative and subjective. But Hannah, my ex fiancé, is a lawyer, brilliant and fierce. I was drawn to her strength and cutting analysis. But she left no room for wonder, for exploration and doubt. Love is reckless and fundamentally uncertain. Of course, we can’t know how we’ll feel in 40 years. No one can, but other people somehow manage to make commitments, to get married. Why couldn’t she embrace this as I could?
She had no trouble embracing other things, I think with that familiar ache. She may have been cautious and calculating when it came to life choices, but Hannah was never reserved when it came to passion. She was all in. The contrast between Hannah-the-professional and Hannah-the-woman is part of what made our love so charged. With me, she could get dirty and let her hair down. And she liked getting dirty, she just needed a little push. Shocking her was nearly as enjoyable as the rest of what we did together…nearly.
Just before turning in for the night, I decide to check my email one last time. As the page loads, I see that I have 1 new message from someone I don’t know. Clicking to open it, my blood turns to ice in my veins. Somebody out there knows what I did all those years ago. The message reads:
Chloe-
A belated congratulation to you on the success of your first novel, High Water. Such an unusual topic; however did the idea come to you? I know your secret. If you do not want anybody else to know your secret, then you will p
ay ten thousand dollars a month for the rest of your life.
A knot is forming low in my belly as I stare at the words “I know your secret.” If word got out about this, I know that my writing career would be over. I’ve worked so hard to build my credentials and reputation as a novelist and I have so much more I want to say. Not ready for my career to be over, I start pacing the cabin, trying to figure out how to respond to this impossible dilemma. I decide to meet the blackmailer demands. I will make the first payment, at least. I don’t have the money to continue paying after that, but that’s a problem that I can’t worry about right now. As I sit down to reply to the message, I hear a gunshot ring just outside the cabin.
I’m not a coward, but my instincts tell me not to approach the sound of gunfire; that’s just good sense. Nevertheless, I venture towards the front door. This is a fairly rugged, sparsely populated area. Occasionally I hear shots as people take aim at jackrabbits or rattlesnakes, but nobody should be hunting at night. The sun set hours ago. And on this strange night, after getting an email from a blackmailer, gunfire is an ominous sound that couldn’t mean anything good. Nevertheless, with shaking hands I turn on the porch light and open the door.
My heart starts racing as I see the dead man on the stoop, garishly illuminated by the bare yellow bulb above. I’m momentarily paralyzed with shock, half in and half out of the door, goosebumps on my arms from the cold or from fear or both. I can’t process what I’m seeing; a dead man on the stoop of my cabin? Impossible. Am I crazy? Maybe he isn’t dead; perhaps he’s a lost hiker, passed out from dehydration and hypothermia. Maybe he needs help.
This last thought jolts me out of my paralysis and I stumble towards him, kneeling to place a hand on his throat. I feel nothing, not even a flutter of movement. It doesn’t look like he is breathing. I should find out who he is, I think fuzzily. Maybe he has family I should contact. I start rifling through his pockets, searching for I.D. As I withdraw my hand from his jacket pocket, I notice something lying beside him on the edge of the stoop in the near darkness; it’s my 9mm. I’m sure of it. I’m also sure that I had left it under the driver’s seat of my Jeep. So, why is it here, beside this dead stranger? Just as my foggy brain starts to realize how incriminating this all looks, flashing blue lights flood the driveway.
Getting shakily to my feet, I raise my arms above my head. The police officer leaves his lights flashing like strobe lights in a horror movie as he gets out of the vehicle. His weapon is drawn and pointed right at me. I’ve never had a gun trained on me before and it isn’t something that was on my bucket list. Disbelief at this evening’s insane turn of events makes it feel like everything is happening underwater, in slow motion. He cautiously approaches, keeping his gun up and ready the whole time. I probably look like a terrified rabbit, frozen and shaking with eyes the size of saucers. Ascending the steps, he holsters his weapon and unclips handcuffs from his belt. Standing close beside me now, on the narrow stoop, he towers over me. I’m 5’5” with shoes. He does nothing to overtly threaten me, but I am very aware of my relative fragility and helplessness, especially considering how culpable I must appear. I notice his badge: Sherriff Gregory Kean.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”
The rushing in my ears drowns out his voice as my wrists are cuffed behind me, the angle pinching my shoulders slightly. Walking feels ungainly with arms pinned behind, I think bemusedly, scuffing the rocky ground with my sneakers as I’m led to the waiting cruiser. He opens the back door and puts a hand on the top of my head to guide me into the waiting backseat. I hope this is a dream, I think wistfully as tires crunch the loose gravel heading down the mountain. But, either way, it will make excellent material for my next novel…Assuming I ever get to write again.
Hannah
I can feel a headache building behind my eyes. I’ve been at the office going through case files all morning. It’s good to stay busy, but it isn’t good to stare at computer screens for hours and it’s definitely not good to forget to eat. Rubbing the bridge of my nose, I sit back in my soft, black leather, ergonomic desk chair and concede that food is necessary. There’s a deli just a few blocks away. I can get a sandwich and, on the way, stop to check my P.O. Box.
Stepping out onto the street, I zip my jacket and grimace at the overcast skies. This is the third day of damp, breezy fifties and I’m ready for sunshine. I walk briskly to the Post Office; it takes only a moment to gather my mail and I am back en route to lunch. As I walk, I flip through letters and bills until I come to a dark red envelope. At first, I think it must be a belated valentine. February 14th was one week ago. But who would send me a valentine? Chloe would still be too heartbroken for a frivolous or sentimental gesture. My heart constricts at the thought, knowing that I single-handedly threw away our shot at happily ever after because I didn’t believe in it. Sometimes I have a head and heart disconnect that disgusts even myself.
I remember our last Valentine’s Day. Chloe, my sweet little romantic, scattered flower petals along the walkway leading to our front door. I had insisted on working that day, of course. Someone has to be responsible, right? When I got home, the table was set for 2. She had made dinner; it smelled like pancetta and tomato sauce: something red. She was wearing the white tee shirt and jeans that I liked best on her. She looked like James Dean, if James Dead had been a beautiful woman. I practically ran into her arms. She held me and we kissed for several long moments before she backed me up against the wall. She devoured me with her mouth and her hands, her palms grazing my nipples through my sheer pink blouse. I slid my hands up under her tee shirt and unclasped her bra while her thigh inserted itself between my legs, pinning me to the wall. I melted against her, wrapping both arms shamelessly around her neck to draw her into me even more. I remember being so wet that it reaches the skin on her leg through the denim. When we broke apart briefly, there was a sizable dark patch on her thigh. I just smirked at her and pressed myself against her again.
She maneuvered me away from the wall and towards the dining room table, so nicely laid out for 2. And 2 shall be laid upon it! I thought giddily. She backed me up slowly, still kissing me, and lay me down on top of the table with my legs dangling over the side. “I guess I know what you’re having for dinner,” I teased her. Then I wrapped my legs around her body and clung to her desperately as she carried out her intention to have me.
She just wanted me, I think. I had someone in my life who was beautiful, passionate, and utterly devoted to me and I threw it away like an idiot! She’s probably treating some other lucky girl to a special Valentine’s Day dinner right now, I think petulantly, feeling more and more sorry for myself by the moment.
Returning to present day reality, in which I’m single and alone, I’m starting to think that I might be stupid after all. Looking at the mysterious red envelope in my hand, I see that it is addressed to me, “Hannah Jaffe,” and there is no return address; I decide to open it once I’m seated at the deli. There are only a handful of people in front of me in line. When I get up to the counter, an adorable blond hipster takes my order. He maintains eye contact a moment too long. I couldn’t care less. I almost pity the guys who try to hit on me. There’s no way for them to tell that I’m gay aside from my total lack of interest, which they usually fail to pick up on. My dark, wavy hair is long. I wear feminine, form fitting tops that show off my lovey figure. I’m not too modest to admit it; it is lovely. I’m soft and round, long and lean, in all the right places. I miss Chloe. What is this body for without her? She didn’t just know what do to with my body, she worshipped my body like no one I’ve ever known. Other lovers lacked imagination or depth. Chloe had it all.
I order a turkey and Havarti sandwich with spicy mustard. The mustard is locally made and very good; I’d mix it into my breakfast cereal if I thought I could get away with that and still integrate into society. Claiming a barstool at the counter, I wipe the mustard from my fingers and
pluck the blood red envelope from the stack of ordinary, white missives. Still chewing, I rip the letter open and pull out a photograph of myself.
I break out in a cold sweat, recognizing myself from ten years earlier. It’s like seeing a ghost, for surely that confused 19-year-old child no longer exists. That’s not me. But it is me. I’m nearly 30 now, a responsible, law abiding citizen, an attorney with a solid reputation. But the girl in this photograph tells a different story. There’s only one reason somebody would anonymously send me an incriminating photograph of myself. Somebody means to blackmail me. I don’t intend to let that happen.
Calling a trusted friend, Matt Malone, I acquire the name of a private detective who comes highly recommended. The man’s office is across town. My car is in a parking deck beside my office; within 10 minutes I’m zipping around the dark bends of the garage, following the exit signs. My haste is brought up short by the LA traffic which can easily turn “across town” into an uncertain expedition or, worse, a waiting room for cars. Sitting in traffic and having so much time to worry does not improve my headache and by the time I find the private detective’s office, my nerves are frayed to the breaking point.
The private detective as an unassuming looking middle aged man with light brown hair and pointed features. He invites me into his office and closes the door. Sitting, I pull out the red envelope, showing him the photograph inside. He studies it attentively, eyes darting from the girl in the picture to the woman holding the picture in her hand. I explain the circumstances in which I received the envelope. He asks me a handful of pertinent questions which I answer honestly. At the conclusion of our meeting, the man meets my worried eyes and confidently assures me that my blackmailer will be tracked down.
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