by Liv Morris
And maybe I could make it work - her hobby in exchange for kinky sex. “I’ll call you next week,” I say. And I will. I can take her to dinner on my own terms and bring her back to my own apartment.
“I’d like that. Here, I need to unlock the door.” Removing a key from a jar near the door, she adds, “Rules of the game.”
“Good night, Lena.”
She gives me a tiny, pathetic wave - alerting me that I will never see her or my Stetson again.
Once I’m outside, I walk a few blocks, enjoying the fresh air and laughing at my own stupidity. I take out my phone and text Adam.
ME: You will never believe where I was.
Adam: In the library with the revolver.
***
11:45 p.m.
By day, Bleecker Street is a typical Downtown avenue with businesses and apartment buildings. Tonight, in the midst of ghouls and goblins, it rivals Sixth Street in Austin during the South by Southwest music festival. People spill onto the street outside Bixby’s bar wearing an array of costumes - although I doubt anyone else has a story like mine. After squeezing through some pimps and hookers and stepping on the rubber claw of an oversized chicken, I spot Adam and his girlfriend, Chloe, standing at a high cocktail table.
Chloe, enchanting as usual, sashays toward me wearing layers of suede and floral, and a skirt that drags the floor. She has a daisy tucked behind her ear and a beaded headband fastened around her long, brown hair.
“Chris!” Smiling dazedly, she forms a ‘V’ with her index and middle fingers. “Peace, my brother.”
“Nice costume, Moon Beam.”
Chloe takes my hand and drags me to the table with Adam and a tray of pumpkin-flavored beer. “I heard you had an interesting night,” she says over her shoulder.
Adam smiles arrogantly and adds, “Hey, Brooks, glad you made it out of there alive.”
“Ha ha. Get all the jokes out now so I can enjoy the rest of my night,” I demand. “Where’s your costume?”
Chloe laughs as she says, “Did you expect Adam to be wearing anything that might make him look slightly ridiculous?” She passes me a pumpkin ale and places her elbow on Adam’s shoulder. “Show Chris your costume.”
Adam sighs and then points to the front of his gray T-shirt. I can make out some lettering and a canoe forged inside a circle. Ah, Camp Crystal Lake, the fictional camp of the Friday 13th franchise. My cousin, Daisy, was an extra in the first movie - and if the VHS tape is paused at just the exact second, her sneakers with the rainbow laces make a cameo. “Understated brilliance, bro,” I admit.
Chloe then puts her arms around Adam’s waist as he wraps his arm around her shoulders. I want that someday - someday when I’m ready.
“So Chris, how did you end up as a prime suspect in a murder dinner theater?” Chloe asks.
“I can answer that. It was payback,” Adam interjects.
Surprised, Chloe asks, “So you knew where he was going? Sometimes you two act like little boys.”
“He kidnapped my cactus!” Adam sarcastically whines.
Puzzled, I ask, “How did you know about the party? Wait, lemme guess - she invited you to go before she even met me.”
Placing his empty bottle of beer on the table and taking another one, Adam answers cockily, “Of course she asked me first, Brooks.”
“Wait, who are you talking about?” Chloe interrupts.
Adam turns to Chloe, rubbing her shoulder and smiling. “Remember that mystery writer I told you about? Lena DeMarco? She’s been researching white collar trials for the past month. She’s friends with someone important because I was instructed to give her full access.”
“Oh, yeah. I read her last novel,” Chloe says, nodding her head.
DeMarco. I only knew her as Ms. White.
“She came in today for a file. Before Lena left, she invited me to the Clue reenactment. I declined and found her a replacement,” Adam teases with a smile.
Chloe looks at me and asks, “And then what happened?”
“Adam introduced me to Lena. She introduced herself as Lena White - Adam didn’t correct her, and he failed to give me a heads up.”
“Ad-am.” Chloe pinches his waist as he laughs.
“Chloe, it was fine. At first,” I whisper.
“Really? Like how?”
“Don’t think I’m crude, okay?” Chloe is a lady, and my intentions are sometimes ungentlemanly.
“I’m not a prude,” she defends.
Throwing back some warm ale, I laugh at the night’s events. “Lena’s smokin’ hot, and I wanted to get laid. I was invited to her apartment where I drank cognac and then allowed a woman to sexually control me - she did some dirty things to me.” I raise my t-shirt and show them the lipstick stains on my chest. “And then she promised even dirtier things if I dressed how she wanted and took her to a party,” I say, finger-quoting the last word.
Confused, Adam asks, “So you didn’t know it was a Clue party?”
“No, you jackass. In fact, she kept talking about interacting with other guests and role-playing - even told me to let it all go and enjoy new experiences.” I lower the volume of my voice, knowing that Adam will find my next statement hysterical. “I thought we were going to a sex party.”
They both erupt in laughter. Adam slaps my back and teases, “So when did you figure out the mystery?”
“Colonel Mustard was the a-ha moment,” I answer, embarrassed.
“And that’s when you left?” Chloe asks, still chuckling.
I close my eyes and exhale. “Not exactly. I thought it was just a nerdy swinger party, and when you have such high hopes for sex in a new way, it’s impossible to believe it could be anything else.”
“Shit, Brooks! When did you finally figure it out?” Adam quips.
“Can I get a stronger drink first?” I ask, placing the nasty beer on the table.
Chloe shakes her head. “Not tonight. The bar is only serving pumpkin ale and the house special.”
Frowning, I say, “Well, after the maid was killed with my dagger in the kitchen, it clicked. To make the long story short -”
“Too late.”
That voice. Her voice.
“Nat, you’re here!” Chloe shouts.
Natalie.
“Looking cheesy, Adam. Who’s the geek with the elbow patches?”
Damn, her snarky mouth is incredible.
Turning around to meet her gaze, I glance at my watch - willing it to stop. Our eyes connect. There she is … the girl that will eventually belong to me.
“Do you remember Chris?” I think Chloe asks the question. But I can’t be sure as I enter a new dimension that only consists of Natalie, smiling in suspended time.
“Hey, darlin’,” I finally say with a smirk.
Her red lips part and slowly form a smile. “Hey.”
There’s conversation happening all around us, muffled and unimportant. Monster Mash pounds through the speakers as a few guys dressed in ridiculous costumes whistle as they walk past Natalie. But I don’t look. This is our bubble - a public seclusion of two people destined to be together.
“Odd costume,” she teases, thumbing my sleeve.
“Long story,” I reply, taking her hand.
Chloe interrupts our moment of suspension by shouting over the music. “Nice costume, Nat! Only you could pull off Marilyn Monroe. Want a beer?”
I glance at my watch as Natalie turns her head. As I suspected, no time has elapsed.
“Pumpkin beer is vile. What else is there?” Natalie asks.
“Blood-orange Sangria. Hey, did Pete come with you?” Adam asks, organizing the empty beer bottles on a tray.
Natalie sighs. “I left his lederhosen-wearing-ass at the party in Chelsea,” she looks back at me with a smile, “and came here.”
Best decision she’ll ever make.
Taking her hand, I say, “Let’s get a drink.” Walking toward the bar, I notice the eyes of every single guy skimming her body - Natalie’s a v
ision tonight, platinum wig and iconic white dress swaying against her hips - but she’s mine.
Soon.
The first and last time I saw Natalie, she had some major shit going on in her life. But on that night, I knew without a doubt that we would eventually be together. Funny how fate likes to control the outcome. And funny how we both allow it, knowing that one day it won’t matter.
“Here, grab that seat,” I say, guiding her by the small of her back to an empty chair.
Natalie sits on the leather stool and pulls me in next to her. “Let’s order the Sangria.”
While motioning for the bartender, I place my other arm around her bare shoulder. The bartender, dressed as the alien, Alf, places two napkins on the bar in front of us.
“Beer or Red Rum?” he asks in a nasally voice.
“Red Rum, I guess.”
When the bartender leaves, Natalie swivels slightly on the stool, her knee resting under my nuts. “How’ve you been, Chris?”
“I’m good. Busy at work.”
With her blue eyes sparkling, Natalie asks the inevitable question. “Are you seeing anyone?”
“Nah, holding out for someone special. You?”
“Yeah, but nothing serious. No one special.” Her hand moves to the waistband of my jeans as her pinky strokes my stomach. But when the bartender places the mini pitcher of blood-red liquid on the bar, she quickly removes her hand.
“May I present, Red Rum. Do you want to start a tab?” the bartender asks.
“Sure,” I say, pouring the alcoholic punch into our glasses. He leaves an orange ticket next to the pitcher and waddles away toward the other patrons in his furry costume.
When it’s just us, alone in a pocket of space controlled by fate, I smile. Returning my smile with a wink, Natalie brings the glass of Sangria to her mouth. She slowly takes a sip, and then staring into my eyes, sensually licks her lips.
I simply watch.
“Perfection. Do you want a taste?” Natalie asks.
I take the glass from her hand and place it on the bar next to mine. Leaning in and inching closer, we let our lips linger on the verge of a new story—our story. Placing all my faith in our future, I don’t kiss her, not yet.
I shift behind her, placing my hands on her shoulders, and pressing my mouth against her ear.
“Soon,” I whisper.
Are you craving more from Chris, Natalie, Adam and Chloe?
Continue on their timeless journey of friendship and love in the upcoming release, The Album.
A moment, a kiss, a love, an epic soundtrack.
Available 11.11.14
About the Author
Hey y’all!
Fifteen years ago I became a permanent New Yorker, but I have yet to abandon my Texas charm. NYC is an amazing place to find inspiration - the random and the ordinary that make up reality. My writing showcases inspired ideas, as well as my love for dichotomy, authenticity and humor.
I'm just a girl. A girl with a dream. A dream to write for television. I also had a dream to marry Christian Bale, but I digress. I'm a girl with a dream to write and write and write until someone tells me to stop. And even then I would find a way to write about the jerk who wanted me to stop.
Connect with Ashley Pullo
Website: www.ashleypullo.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/ashleypullo
Twitter: https://twitter.com/AshPullo
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/ashpullo
Email: [email protected]
Mailing List: www.ashleypullo.com
Other Books by Ashley Pullo
The Album 11.11.14
The Ballad 12.11.14
Double Dare by Penny Reid
Never play truth or dare with identical twins
A note from the author
Dear Reader,
This short story is actually the beginning of book #1 in the Winston Brother’s series (the full novel will be released before summer 2015). I did my best to end it at a place where (if this is all you were to read of Jessica and Duane’s story, then) you would feel content and satisfied that they reached their Happily Ever After. But for those of you who want more, do not fret! It’s on its way.
I hope you all have a happy Halloween!! Best, Penny
Part 1: The Tale of Two Twins
~Jessica~
I pulled into the Green Valley Community Center parking lot and scared the crap out of five senior citizens.
Though it was Halloween, frightening senior citizens was not on my agenda.
I’d dutifully stopped as they crossed in front of my vehicle. Unfortunately for everyone within earshot, the truck made a ghastly, high-pitched whining sound whenever it idled.
The five of them jumped, obviously startled, and glared at me as though I’d commanded the truck to make the screech on purpose. Soon their glares morphed into wrinkled squints of plain befuddlement as their eyes moved over my appearance from my perch. It took them a few minutes, but they recognized me.
Everyone knew me.
Nevertheless, I imagined they were not expecting to see Jessica James, the twenty-one year old daughter of Jeffrey James and sister of Jackson James, dressed in a long white beard sitting behind the wheel of an ancient Ford Super Duty F-350 XL.
In my defense, it wasn’t my monster truck. It was my mother’s. I was currently between automobiles, and she’d just upgraded to a newer, bigger, more intimidating model. Something she could plaster with bumper stickers that said, Have You Kissed Your Sheriff Today? and Don’t Drink and DERIVE, Alcohol and Calculus Don’t Mix, and Eat Steak!! The West Wasn’t Won With Salad.
As the local chief of police’s wife, mother to a police officer (my brother) and math teacher (me), and the daughter of a cattle rancher, I think she felt it was her duty to use the wide canvas of her truck as a mobile pro-police, mathematics, and beef billboard.
After a few more minutes of confused stares, the gang of seniors shuffled off toward the entrance to the community center, casting cautiously confused glances over their shoulders. As quickly as I could, I maneuvered the beast into a space at the edge of the lot. Since inheriting the truck I usually parked on the edge of parking lots so as not to be that jerk who drives an oversized vehicle and takes up two spaces.
I adjusted my beard, tossing the three-foot, white length over my shoulder, and grabbed my gray cape and wizard hat. Then I tried not to fall out of the truck or flash anyone on my hike down from the driver’s seat. Luckily, my costume also called for a long staff, and I leveraged the polished wood to aid my descent; the rest of my costume was negligible—a one-piece mini-skirt sheath with a low cut front—and made stretching and moving simple.
I was halfway across the lot, lost in delighted mental preparation for my father and brother’s scowls of disapproval, when I heard my name.
“Jessica, wait up.” I turned, found my coworker Claire jogging toward me. I set my wizard hat—which had a built-in wig—on my head and waved.
“I thought that was you. I saw the beard and the staff.” She slowed as she neared, her eyes moving over the rest of my costume. “You’ve made some… modifications.”
“Yes.” I nodded proudly, grinning at her warily amused expression. I noted that Claire hadn’t changed since work; she was still wearing an adorable Raggedy Ann costume. Lucky for her, she already had bright red hair and freckles. All she had to do was put her long locks in pig tails, add the overalls and white cap.
“Do you like what I’ve done?” I twisted to one side then the other to show off my new garment and the high-heeled strappy sandals.
“Are you still Gandalf? Or what are you supposed to be?”
“Yeah, I’m still Gandalf. But now I’m sexy Gandalf.” I wagged my eyebrows.
Claire covered her mouth with a white-gloved hand then snorted. “Oh my God! You are a nut!”
A sinister giggle escaped my lips. I’m not much of a giggler unless I’ve done something sinister. “Well, I couldn’t wear it to wo
rk. But I love the irony of it, you know? All those stupid Halloween costumes that women are expected to wear, like sexy nurse and sexy witch and sexy bee. I’ve actually seen a ‘sexy bee’ costume. Am I missing something? Is there a subset of men who get off thinking about pollinators?”
“I agree. You can’t wear the sexy Gandalf costume to work. In addition to being against the dress code, you’re already starring in the sex fantasies of all your male students as their hot calculus teacher. If you’d worn sexy Gandalf at school instead of regular Gandalf, I think they’d go home feeling confused about their sexuality.”
I laughed and shook my head, thinking how odd the last three months had been.
Like me, Claire was a native of Green Valley; also like me, she’d moved back to town after college. She’d become the band teacher during my senior year of high school. Now we were coworkers. With her gorgeous red hair, light blue eyes, and a strikingly beautiful face, during my senior year as well as now, she was labeled the hot music teacher.
She even had those awesome high cheekbones that magazines talk about, with the little hollow above the jaw. Add to her stunning good looks the most laid-back, kind, generous, and all-around talented person I’d ever met, she should have been in New York or Milan living the life of a muse or a model or a concert pianist.
But she had sad eyes.
Unlike me, she’d married her childhood sweetheart. Her husband, Ben McClure, had been a marine; he’d died overseas two years ago. Having no other family to speak of, I surmised that Claire was still living in Green Valley because she wanted to stay near his family.
I’d left home for college a content, albeit geektastic, invisible nobody. I didn’t marry my childhood sweetheart because I didn’t have one. But upon my return (just a short four years later), same school with the same social order and subsets, I’d now become a new stereotype.
I was the hot math teacher.
