by Denise Wells
The balcony is my favorite place in the house to go when I want to think or be alone. It’s covered, so I’m shielded from the elements, and there’s heating and cooling. Regardless of the time of year, I can keep the temperature comfortable. In the morning, it’s perfect for sitting and drinking my coffee, the sun is usually shining, and I can listen to the birds. In the evening, I can enjoy a glass of wine with an uninterrupted view of the city lights, and the heaters take the chill out of the brisk night air.
The phone barely rings before Crystal answers. “Hey, fancy pants.”
“Hey, is it a good time? Babies asleep?”
“Yes and yes.” She sighs. “It’s perfect. I just poured a glass of wine and am lounging on the couch like a sloth. You on your balcony?”
“You know me too well.” I smile.
“Sorry about having to cancel. Just be happy you weren’t subjected to the wrath of my children. Hey, how did venue viewing go today?”
“Oh, Crystal. You aren’t going to believe it.” I sigh.
“I sense a story coming, do tell.”
“You know the photographer that Hunter just had to have?”
“Matthew Hanhauser, right? The celebrity photographer guy? He’s supposed to be amaz—”
“That’s the one,” I interrupt. “It’s Pax.”
“Wait. What?” She laughs. “How can that be?”
“I mean, there is no Matthew Hanhauser,” I hiss. “It’s Pax in a disguise pretending to be someone else. It’s an alias.”
“No!” she gasps.
“Yes!”
“Ohmigod!”
“I know!”
“What are you going to do?”
“What can I do?” I ask.
“You have to fire him, of course.”
“Okay, I know. But how? Why?”
“What do you mean how, why? Because it’s Pax and not Matthew Hanhauser, that’s why.”
“That’s because there is no Matthew Hanhauser.”
“Unbelievable.”
“I know.”
“Okay,” she says. “What are you thinking?”
“Well, let’s say that I do fire him, what do I tell Hunter or Liza? I’ve been thinking on this all day and I have yet to come up with anything remotely suitable.” I look back toward the house to make sure I’m still alone and Hunter can’t overhear me.
“You don’t need suitable. Stop being so formal about it. Just tell them you don’t like him.”
“But they love him.”
“Well, sucks to be them.”
I laugh at her. “I can’t do that. Hunter is so excited to have this guy, because he’s the best. And I already feel—”
“This guy, meaning Matthew?”
I sigh and take a large sip of my wine. “Yes.”
“You already feel what?” she asks.
“Like the decision has been taken away from me anyway. Not that it matters, Liza hired him, Hunter agreed, and Pax knew exactly what he was doing.”
“So, obviously it’s been him the entire time, right?”
“Yep.” I make a popping sound with the “p.” I’d told her about how annoying Matthew was at our cake tasting. Which is way more believable now that I know that it was Pax. “You want to know the weird thing?”
“There’s more?” Crystal giggles.
“Before I knew he was really Pax, we had this moment where I felt like this Matthew guy really got me and was on my side, for lack of a better explanation.”
“What happened?”
“I just, I knew that it wasn’t the place I wanted to get married. But I hadn’t said anything yet. And he knew. He came up to me and basically told me it wasn’t the right place. That it didn’t fit me.”
“Well, that’s not so weird. Pax knows you.”
“I know. But I felt this connection with Matthew over it. And to know that it’s really Pax doesn’t change that, does it? I mean, let’s face it, does Pax really know me?”
“Almost as well as I do, I’d say.”
“I guess.” I tip an empty glass to my lips, surprised to discover I’ve finished the entire glass already. “Hang on, I’m going inside to get more wine.” I refill my glass and wait until I’m back situated on the balcony before continuing, “Is it weird that I felt . . . I don’t really know how to describe it . . . I felt accepted or justified when he knew it wasn’t the right place for me. I mean, Hunter and Liza tend to just bulldoze along, making plans without really consulting me—”
“I thought you didn’t really care though,” Crystal interrupts.
“I don’t. Not really.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
I have a love/hate relationship with “drinking Crystal” because she’s not afraid to call me on my shit. Which I need, but it’s not a part of our normal daily discourse. Which I would hate.
“Well,” I start. “I feel left out.”
“Ah, there it is.” She sounds triumphant, as though she figured something out instead of me telling her something. Hence the love/hate.
I roll my eyes. “There what is?”
“The whole point is that you feel left out, and you don’t like it when you aren’t the center of attention.”
“That’s not true!”
“It’s not a bad thing. I’m not criticizing you. It’s just a facet of your personality. And, let’s face it, even though you kind of hate that Hunter literally worships the ground you walk on. I mean, he calls you ‘my queen,’ for god’s sake, and you count on it at the same time. You expect it. It’s a comfort for you.”
“It’s not a comfort for me,” I scoff.
“That’s not a bad thing either. None of this is negative, sweetie. I’m just trying to help you understand how you feel.”
“When did you become Dr. Phil?”
“Earlier today.” She giggles. I do too.
“Okay, in all seriousness,” she says. “If you aren’t going to fire him, how is this going to work? It’s Pax. You guys don’t exactly get along. Won’t Hunter or Liza wonder what’s going on if you’re being mean to each other?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought it through that far.” I refill my wine glass for a third time, glad I’d just brought the bottle out here with me. I’ll have to work out an extra hour tomorrow to rid myself of these extra empty calories.
“Clearly you just need to avoid him at all costs.”
“Not exactly easy to do when he’s constantly taking my picture,” I grumble.
“At least it explains some of those bad ones from the cake tasting. He probably did it on purpose.”
“Oh, he did. He all but admitted it. He said, and I quote, ‘You’d better be nice to me, I’m in control of how you’ll look on your big day.’ What a dick, right?”
“Wow,” Crystal says. “Do you think he’s doing this just to get back at you for something?”
“He said it’s revenge. But I can’t imagine over what.”
“Uh, the divorce?”
“That was ten years ago.”
“Yeah, but things got pretty ugly.”
“Not just on my part though. He did terrible things too.”
“Yeah, but . . . the camera,” she says.
Oh god, the camera. Not my finest moment.
“The camera,” I repeat, nodding.
“And the print,” she says.
I always forget about the print.
“I mean, no offense, but I can’t blame him if he’s still trying to get back at you for that, you know?”
“I paid him a lot of money for breaking that camera.”
“Yeah, but it was kind of irreplaceable, right? It being his grandpa’s and all. And then you never gave him back the print once you had it restored. He doesn’t even know it still exists.”
I think of where I have the print hanging in my office. How I’ve kept it close to me after all these years. How I had it painstakingly restored, but then never returned it.
“You aren’t h
elping. And quit taking his side.”
“I’m on your side. Always. I’m just trying to come up with rational explanations for why he might be doing this.”
“Well, good luck with that. There isn’t anything that is rational about him.” The door opens behind me and Hunter steps out on the balcony.
“Hey, Crystal, Hunter just got home, so I’m going to go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”
“’Kay. Good luck. Love you.”
“Love you.” I disconnect the call and stand to greet Hunter.
He pulls me into his arms. “Mmm, you feel good after a long day.”
“I’m sorry you had a long day. Did you have a lot going on after we met?” I ask.
“I did.” He sits in the lounger and tries to pull me into his lap. My wine spills in the process.
“Oh dear, what a klutz I am,” he says. “Here, sit up and I’ll get a towel and some club soda.” He pushes me off him, and I stand unsteadily. It’s amazing what two plus glasses of wine will do to your equilibrium when all you’ve barely eaten all day.
“It’s fine, Hunter,” I tell him, my words slurring a bit. “It’s white wine and not much spilled. Sit with me. Let’s talk about your day.”
He leaves anyway to get a towel and some club soda, coming back and dabbing at my skirt until he’s satisfied. He takes my wine from me and sets it on the side table, then sits and pulls me back into his lap again. We stay like this for a few minutes.
It’s nice.
“How was your day, my queen?” he asks, still not having told me about his. He nuzzles my neck and breathes in deeply, his lips connecting with a sensitive spot behind my ear that never fails to excite me. I feel a stirring down in my belly. One of the best things about Hunter is the routine and dependability. When he’s in the mood, he starts by kissing the spot behind my ear. If I respond in kind, he keeps going. He’s a conscientious lover, always making sure I’m taken care of. And I’m attracted to him. Sex with us is good. It’s just not the fire and brimstone that I had with Pax. And I’m convinced that’s okay.
Not everything has to be so passionate that it’s chaotic and unpredictable. With Hunter, I know the position he favors: missionary so he can kiss me; and I know that if I don’t orgasm during, he will usually make sure I do after. There’s always enough foreplay to make sure I’m ready for him and the actual intercourse will last a solid two minutes, if not longer. He will bring me a washcloth to clean myself with after, and we’ll cuddle until one of us falls asleep.
It’s solid, reliable, good, and exactly what I need in my life. When all I’ve ever known is the roller coaster of uncertainty, Hunter takes me on a ride where I can see the twists and turns in plenty of time to prepare for them.
He reaches his hand around to cup my breast through my blouse, massaging my nipple with his thumb. I turn my head to the side to kiss him. He pecks my lips softly in return, then goes back to kissing my neck and shoulder blades. I reach behind me to fondle him through his slacks.
“Oh god, my queen, that feels so good. Let’s go inside?”
I run my palm down his length and back up again. “We could stay here,” I whisper.
“No, someone might see. I’d rather that not happen.”
I stand and take his hand to lead him to our room. He brings mine to his mouth and kisses each of my fingers as we go. When we step into our room, he removes my clothing, almost reverently, and lies me on the bed before disrobing himself and crawling between my legs. He’s inside me within seconds and groans his appreciation.
“You feel so good,” he moans.
I grasp his face and bring his lips to mine, kissing him hard.
Hunter lets me lead for a moment, then pulls his head away, his lips leaving mine somewhat reluctantly. “You okay?” He stops his thrusting while he asks.
“Yes. Why?”
“You seem a little different tonight is all.”
“How so?”
“That kiss. It was different. Harsh and angry.”
“I thought it was passionate,” I defend.
“That’s not how it came across,” he says. “We aren’t animals.”
He leans down and kisses me gently. Softly. His lips barely whispering across mine. And when he slips his tongue in to meet mine, it’s a gentle greeting that I receive. Tenuous in its exploration even after more than a year together.
Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy how tender Hunter is with me. But every so often, I wish he’d just push me against the wall and slam in balls deep. Like he can’t control himself, like his attraction for me, his need to possess, is so overpowering he loses all control.
But he doesn’t.
And that needs to be okay.
12
Pax
I know better than to trust Gregor with setting me up on a blind date. And it’s not that he would pick someone so wrong for me, he wouldn’t if he knew them. But since I pretty much know everyone that Gregor does, they’re all ruled out. If he’s setting me up, it’s because his own date has a friend who needs one. Which is what has happened tonight.
Becky, Gregor’s date, is amazing. A single mom who works for an international marketing firm. She’s beautiful, funny, smart, outgoing. Gregor is smitten, I can tell. Not that it would take much. Hell, I’m practically smitten. And she’s a hell of a bowler.
My date, on the other hand, is one of those girls who is so opposite of her friend you wonder how they ever get along with one another. Her name is Tricia but says everyone calls her Trix. However, when I do the same, she says I have to earn the right. Okay. No problem. I’m all for female empowerment in any way you need or want. You are woman, I hear you roar. And I’ll call you Tricia while you do it.
We get to the bowling alley at the respective time, deciding to order food from the concession stand as opposed to hitting a restaurant beforehand. Becky’s idea. And I’m a fan. Chips with melted faux-cheese never taste so good as from a concession stand. Whether movie theater, ball game, or bowling alley, there is something about that oddly orange liquid goodness drowning round, salty chips and covered in soggy jalapeños, that just hits the fucking spot. Especially when accompanied by a beer.
Becky and Gregor share a hotdog, popcorn, and nachos. Which is funny because I know for a fact Gregor could eat all three as just his appetizer. But it’s cute to see him split it with his date, even giving her the bigger half of the hotdog. I guarantee we’ll be stopping somewhere on the way home for food.
We’ve split into teams, Becky and Gregor against Trix and me. Sorry, Tricia and me. She sucks at this game just as much as I do. It’s pretty much a shutout. Becky and Gregor score strike after strike while Tricia and I are lucky to knock out the middle five on any given first try. Our (lack of) skill ensuring neither of us will never get the spare/split on the second go-round.
Which means it’s time to make this game interesting. So, I propose to Tricia that we do a shot every time we don’t get the spare. Which has us pretty much doing a shot with every turn in the lane. Tricia chases her shots with water. I, on the other hand, chase mine with beer. It doesn’t take long before I’m sloppy and she’s fired the fuck up. Not a good combination. I take to slapping her on the ass after she collects her ball, but before she lines up her shot. Because I adhere to bowling protocol and don’t bother the bowler in wait. She, in turn, starts to sit on my lap during Gregor and Becky’s turns.
Before long we’re making out and shortly after that, she’s going down on me in the men’s restroom. She deep throats so well my eyes cross.
“Oh, yeah, baby,” I moan.
“Call me Trix,” she mumbles around my cock.
Apparently, having my cock in her mouth gives me the right to call her Trix. She takes me to the brink of coming and lets me slip from her lips with a “pop” sound.
“Oh, don’t stop,” I complain.
“I want you to come inside me,” she whines.
My brow furrows. “Inside you?”
“Fuck
me.” She draws the words out as she unbuttons her jeans and starts to push them down her thighs.
“Uh. Okay.” I mean, it’s one thing to get a blow job in the handicapped stall at the bowling alley. But it’s a whole other to have sex. It’s a family establishment. Kids could come in, for god’s sake.
Still, I comply.
I grab a condom from my wallet and rush to put it on before I think too hard on the wisdom of this latest life choice and go soft. She turns her back to me and leans forward, resting her hands on the toilet seat, turning my stomach slightly. Who knows what’s been on that seat? And those same hands were just on my cock.
Ugh.
It doesn’t stop me.
I still slide my cock in, grab her by the hips, and start to pound away.
“Oh god, yes!” she screams.
Screams.
Like a porn star on an audition.
“Shhh.” I reach a hand around to cover her mouth.
She licks my fingers. Ambitiously. Making a loud moaning noise as she goes.
“Shhh,” I say again.
She ignores me, laving away at my fingers and palm.
“Oh, so good, unh, yeah, baby.” In between licks, she speaks, and starts to rock back into me as I thrust forward. I appreciate her enthusiasm. I do. And the assist is helpful as I’m close to coming. I don’t think she’s come yet, and I almost feel bad about that. But I’ve had enough to drink at this point that I don’t want to care. Still, I lower my hand from her mouth to diddle her clit.
“Unh, unh, unh, unh.” She grunts in time with my thrusts as her muscles clamp down. She’s coming. Thank god. Now I can focus on me with a clear conscience.
“Oh, cowboy, ride ’em. Yeah. Ride ’em, cowboy. Get on that horse. Oh yeah, god yeah. Fuck yeah.” She keeps talking.
Even after her climax.
I can’t focus.
Am I the cowboy here or the horse?
“Go cowboy,” she moans. “Get ’em. Ride ’em. Fuck yes.”
I think she’s the horse and I’m the cowboy.
I can’t think about this and finish.
Focus, Pax. For fuck’s sake.
