Whom The Muses Love Short Story

Whom The Muses Love         

by Deanne Kearns

           

Dillan Malone had been trapped in the condemned warehouse with the serial rapist for exactly two weeks, three days, sixteen hours and fifty-four minutes.

 At fifty-five minutes, Tyler Kirkland kicked her chair back from her desk and shut down the computer without saving.

”Crap!”

Tyler, best-selling author of four Dillan Malone novels, was stuck. There was no way out for Malone that she hadn’t already used. Malone’s partner (her fifth) was dead, and Tyler had sent Malone in without backup.   Tyler sighed. “That’s why I don’t like partners. You get to depend on them then, BAM, they get themselves killed and you’re falling from skylights and hanging from the rafters wondering how you got there.”

Tyler stretched in her chair and put her hand to her back.  Another day wasted, killing her back in this chair. She needed to get a new one, but she’d been locked in this wrestling match with her manuscript and never thought of it. Her mind whirled constantly. Where to go? What was Dillan’s next move? What was the rapist’s next move? What was her next move? 

She sighed. Maybe a mocha would help; some fresh air and a good cup of coffee always picked her up. She could feel herself relaxing already.

The phone rang, shattering her precarious mood. ”Damn it!” She snatched it out of her pocket and barked into it.

“Kirkland!”

“You’re in rare form today,” a dry voice observed.

“Bill? Please tell me Pratt agreed to the extension?”

“Pratt is getting restless. I told him I’d call you, ask you if you couldn’t put a bit more speed on it. A month is a long time.”

“I’m serious, Bill, I need the time.  He’s been battering my door down for three more Malone outlines, too. I really need a break here.”

 “I don’t think he’ll be happy, but I’ll sell Pratt on another month’s extension.” Bill hesitated a moment. “Try to get hold of this thing. I know blocks are hard to handle; you just have to write through it.”

 “I know, Bill. Thanks.” Tyler sneered as she closed her phone. “Jesus, trying to tell me to ‘write through it.’” She smacked her fist into her palm, frustrated.

Her eyes wandered to a bookcase and her feet followed.  One book called out to her and she touched the spine. ‘Reaching For The Muse: The Classical Writers And Their Impact On Today’s Literature.’ Farther down, she let her fingers follow the letters. They were worn and almost unreadable. ‘Tyler Kirkland.’

‘I need more time.’

Tyler walked out her condo door into the lobby. She ignored the security guard as usual and stepped out into a gorgeous fall day. She had been ready to call a taxi, but the weather was so beautiful, she decided to walk.

She took a deep breath of the crisp air. She already felt better. She’d go to her favorite coffee shop and spend a few hours there. Hill of Beans Coffee Shop was twelve blocks from Tyler’s condo. The walk was always invigorating and got her mind working again. A raspberry mocha would help her feel more like herself. She started down the sidewalk, appreciating the sights and sounds of the city in autumn.

It had never occurred to Tyler to question whether or not she was happy. Those questions were for the feeble-minded. You took what came your way and you used it, good or bad. She had a job that kept her in good style. Her friends were intelligent; not like those clingy, needy fans that mobbed her at book signings and conventions. She had the occasional woman to wear on her arm and enliven her dark nights. She didn’t let herself think any deeper than that. She came and went as she pleased; no one told her what to do or how to do it. Well, except for editors and publishers.

Tyler was pleased with her neighborhood. Nearly every other place in this suburb was infested with homeless and indigent. They seemed to spontaneously spread like a malaise through the city. Those people could wreck real estate value just walking down the street.

Tyler spent the afternoon with a large raspberry mocha, jotting in her notebook and watching people. Real, live people were fodder for her novels; characters to fill the gaps and die at their appointed time. ”I don’t even have to edit most of them,” she told some groupies once at a cocktail party. ”Most of the slobs on the street make better characters than I could think up.”

“Wow, that’s so observant,” a willowy blond said, slinking up against her. Tyler checked her ID and took her home after the party.

Tyler’s pleasant escape was interrupted by two older women asking for autographs. She resented the interruption, but they were two paying, repeat customers. She supposed that was worth a couple of signatures. They cackled and cooed over Tyler while she signed a couple of napkins. As they continued to pour out their adoration, Tyler reflected the two biddies merited a page or two in her notebook. She had an idea these two ladies would end up being the first victims of a…strangler. Yeah.

Pleased she’d come up with the antagonist for the next Malone adventure, Tyler finished her notes then gathered her notebook, pen and half-full coffee and headed for the door. She dropped a quarter in the tip jar on her way past, turned to rush out and nearly ran down an old woman.

She looked at Tyler with faded, watery blue eyes. Tattered cuffs and elbows on her sweater, grubby and stained, marked her as a homeless woman. Her blouse still had a bit of lace clinging determinedly to the collar. A skirt with pastel flowers on a dark blue background clashed badly with white support stockings and a pair of bright red sneakers.

Tyler backed up fast to avoid colliding with her, then stopped.  Her face captured Tyler’s imagination. Like a wrinkled and petrified apple, it was stamped and seamed by the ravages of time and indigence. Even so, it was clear; free of blemishes; its color smooth and even. The woman’s gray hair was thinning but still silky; Tyler could see its natural shine in the sunlight streaming through the window. Her cheeks were ruddy and there was a twinkle in her eyes as she watched Tyler. What the hell was she doing here? The homeless never ventured this far south.

‘This old gal must have been a looker in her day.’ She burned the old woman’s features into her memory while a new scene formed in her mind. Somehow, this woman was going to get Malone out of that warehouse. She could almost see the scene…

“—young lady?”

“Hmm? What?” Tyler blinked.

"I wonder if you might spare the cost of a cup of coffee, young lady?” The woman’s voice was scratchy and hoarse but mellow, oddly alluring; Kathleen Turner with a cold.

"Uh. . .” Almost in a trance, Tyler looked in her wallet. All she had were twenties. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the manager bearing down on the old woman, ready to pitch her out the door on Tyler’s word. She waved a hand. ”Hold on, Walter,” Tyler said. ”If you stick with a small house blend, you should get five or six cups out of this.” She gave Walter a twenty. The fog she’d felt come over her when she’d looked into the woman’s eyes was beginning to lift, but not before she said, “Keep count for her, Walt, and give her the change.”

She paused. Walter and the old woman watched her; Walter with his jaw hanging.  ‘Did I just set up an old homeless woman with a week’s worth of coffee? The old gal sure has expensive taste. Why doesn’t she hang around Joe’s on Sixth Street?’ 

‘When you say you’re going to do something, Ty, you’d better keep your word,’ her mother’s voice droned in her head.

Walter stared at her. ”Ms. Kirkland, are you—"

“I said it, didn’t I?” Tyler snapped. She turned to leave, but the old woman hadn’t moved.

“Bless you, young lady,” She gathered Tyler’s hands in hers. ”You’re a generous soul.” Her hands were soft when she folded them over Tyler’s.

The old woman’s eyes burned into her. Tyler almost lost herself in those eyes. For a moment they were sparkling sapphire blue and they held her captive. The weight of years shone from them, and a love and compassion Tyler never saw in all the people she met or called friends. She shook herself and quickly pulled her hands away and dodged around the old woman to escape without saying goodbye.

As she walked back home, she saw the old woman again; she was across the street on a bus stop bench. No—that wasn’t the woman she’d seen. It wasn’t possible for the woman to have gotten here before her. And this old gal was dressed in a track suit with a jacket pulled over the top. She raised a cup of coffee and Tyler almost tripped over a fireplug. No, she had to be…a sister. ‘Yeah, twins. That’s it.’

When she got back to her condo, she grabbed a legal pad and fleshed out four characters and scenarios. Then she booted her computer and began writing. She wrote through dinner, past Letterman and Ferguson, until the moon sank behind the cityscape and her eyes began to burn.

“Man,” she whispered when she read the final scene. The old woman (she’d named her Callie Cooper) had opened the floodgates for her somehow.  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Maybe she’d provided some inspiration, but the work was all Tyler. She saved it and pushed her chair back.

Tyler went to the bookcase again on her way to her bedroom. This time she pulled the volume from the shelf and ran her hand over the cover. A photograph of a bust of Hesiod, and a foil-stamp: Best Literary Non-Fiction; Educator’s Literary Council. “New York Times Bestseller” above the title. She put the book back and headed up the hall to her bedroom.

‘I need time.’

*****

Even after her epiphany at the coffee shop, she wrestled with Callie Cooper, the device that made closure for Malone possible.  She’d had to rewrite a bit of her manuscript here and there to fit Callie into the role, but she fit beautifully. So much so that in the end, Callie refused to die. The final scene in the warehouse was fraught with action and wrenching emotion. Tyler accepted the old woman’s will to live and finished the book, leaving her and Malone alive at the end.

*****

‘Malone’s Price’ was released to rave reviews and hailed as the best yet in the series. Her publisher celebrated the release of the fifth Dillan Malone novel with a party at a Manhattan club.  Sam Pratt invited corporate big-wigs from nearly every publishing house in New York and their husbands/wives/lovers. The only people there that Tyler really knew was Sam Pratt, Bill Moore and her agent, Dave Brooks. There were at least a dozen women looking like heart attacks in dresses.

“I know how you love the ladies, Ty,” Sam nudged and winked like Eric Idle, then made a fast break to fawn over a Passageway executive.

Tyler desperately wanted to pass on the party. Still, she understood the game and she endured questions and congratulations; women in glittering cocktail dresses moved close and exclaimed over her skill, mini-celebrities wanted to press the flesh and brag they’d met Tyler Kirkland. Two or three executives slipped her business cards.  Agents followed her around like puppies. Nearly every one of the ‘cocktail women,’ as she’d come to call the single women floating about the club, had pursued her until she wanted to hide in the bathroom. She was getting tired and ready to leave.

In a brief lull in the crowd’s noise, Tyler heard a lyrical voice blending with mellow piano. The crowd turned toward the sound. She pushed her way to the front and was stunned.

A woman in a black off the shoulder evening dress stood on a low stage next to a Steinway, pouring her voice into an old-fashioned microphone. Black hair cascaded over her shoulders and disappeared into the folds and shadows of her dress. She was a siren pulling Tyler closer into her aura.

Tyler approached the stage through the parting crowd, and when the singer’s eyes locked into hers, her heart jerked in her chest, making her breathless. The woman sang for her alone. When the song ended and the music faded, Tyler’s feet took her to the stage and she held out her hand. Her hand in Tyler’s was a blessing, her smile a benediction.

She heard whispers behind them about “flavor of the month,” but Tyler ignored them; there was nothing in the club for her but the raven haired woman who held her hand.

Without a word between them, Tyler took the woman’s wrap and her jacket from the cloakroom. She placed the wrap around the woman’s shoulders and put her jacket on. The woman took Tyler’s arm and they left the club. Tyler did not hail a taxi; she wanted to enjoy the night air with the woman beside her. it never occurred to Tyler to ask her name; she felt almost as if she knew her in her heart. Names became a burden that held you back.

They walked to Tyler’s condo while the normally busy and jittery boulevard emptied itself as they passed. Ahead and behind, she heard horns blare and cabbies curse.  As they passed the park, the late buskers drew a last tune from their instruments, looking for one more dollar. But Tyler and the woman walked in a place of silence hollowed out from the rumble of the city.

Occasionally Tyler would look sideways at the woman on her arm. She was a beauty with her flashing sapphire eyes and black hair. She had high cheekbones, a smooth forehead and full lips. The dress she wore revealed creamy throat and shoulders. She was nearly as tall as Tyler and walked with a confident step that was in synch with Tyler’s own gait.

They reached her condo after an unhurried stroll. Tyler held the door for the woman and took her wrap while she turned about in the middle of her living room, looking around Tyler’s home. She walked slowly to the bookcase and studied the volumes lining the shelves; Dillan Malone first editions, compilations of Twain, Shakespeare, Vonnegut, and Steinbeck. There were nonfiction titles Tyler had written on modern literature and ancient culture’s influence on modern writing; all published before she began the Dillan Malone series. She took ‘Reaching For the Muse’ down and browsed through the pages, smiling to herself here and there.

As she fixed drinks, Tyler glanced at her often, wondering what was making the black haired beauty smile.

Tyler approached the woman with a drink; she took it with a smile and let Tyler guide her to a sofa in front of the fake fireplace. When she was seated on the sofa, Tyler placed her own drink on the table and turned to her with her hands in her pockets. Back in her home, she felt less bespelled, but still felt the force of her beauty and mystery.

As they watched each other, Tyler became certain she knew her. Without thinking she said, “Haven’t we met before?”

The woman laughed; a low, sensuous sound. ”Look out. She’s winding the watch of her wit; by and by it will strike.”

Tyler felt a flush rise from her neck, but covered by saying, “I didn’t think anyone attending one of Sam’s parties would be quoting Shakespeare.”

The woman’s face glowed in the light of the simulated fire. It became youthful and the lines of her lips and cheeks became full and round. Tyler wondered how those lips would taste. Her heart pounded a little faster.

“You may find I am not just anyone. I like Shakespeare. But tell me, do you often bring nameless women home to your loft, Ms. Kirkland?”

Tyler went to the couch and sat casually beside the woman.  “They don’t stay nameless long,” she said lightly. She smiled, but Tyler felt her disappointment.  She felt as if she were stumbling through a high school dance. None of her lines were working and the woman made her feel like a gawky teenager. How had she come to value this woman’s opinion of her more than anyone in her life, in mere minutes? More seriously, she said, “I’ve been accused of doing so; but that’s not what this is. What is your name?”

The woman touched her wrist lightly.  ”You named me Callie Cooper.”

Tyler stared. ”Callie Cooper—" She couldn’t process what the woman said. ”What?” She tried to understand her words.”You—she—you’re Callie?” Tyler pinched the bridge of her nose, remembering each detail he’d memorized about the old woman in the coffee shop. “That’s impossible!”

“In truth, my name is Calliope. My sister, whom you saw on the street, is Thalia. She saw all of our encounter, and encouraged me to pursue you.”

Shock gave way to anger.  Pursue? Tyler Kirkland was not pursued. She was the one who hunted and claimed the trophy. She shook Calliope’s hand off her arm and stood up.  “This has Sam’s stink all over it. How much did he pay you for a joke and a tumble?”

“I don’t know this Sam; no one has paid me for anything. I give and I take what I will.” She stood and in the dim light of Tyler’s living room she seemed to transform into a goddess.”Suspend your disbelief and listen to what I have to say.”

Tyler backed into her reading chair and carefully lowered herself into the seat. “You’re Calliope. The old woman. The woman in the bus stop was Thalia.” She took a gulp of her drink. “You’re Muses.” Calliope nodded, her blue eyes locked on Tyler’s own shocked ones.

“I met you and realized your potential. Thalia and I watched your treatment of Callie Cooper. You showed compassion for a stranger, and one whom you would normally scorn.

“But you’ve grown hard over the years, and that hardness found its way not only into your writing, but into your heart. You have taken indiscriminately and given nothing back.” Calliope’s words stung Tyler and made her want to hide from the beautiful woman in front of her. Before tyler could sink any further, calliope changed her words to compassion and encouragement.

“You have only forgotten how to give and receive compassion, and the art of writing is not lost in some vague past. It still resides in you.”  Calliope’s eyes flashed with the joy of creation and discovery that Tyler realized she had lost years ago. “You must only reach out, open your heart, and take hold.”

Tyler looked up the ceiling, her eyes welling. She tried to get a full breath but her heart was beating too fast. ”I wanted to be a great writer. Not another Shakespeare or Faulkner or Plath, but I wanted to at least leave a sentence or a paragraph that would…live after me.” She rubbed her jaw. ”Then on a whim I sent a hacked-together manuscript to Bill at Passageway, and I was locked in. I tried to hold some back for myself, but the deadlines were ungodly…and the money was good.”

Calliope nodded in understanding. ”I have seen it with so many wordsmiths. The pressure is enormous to please others.  But you are different, Tyler. I can guide you back to your joy and passion to write. The critics heaped laurels upon you for this last book, but they don’t understand why.

“Tyler Kirkland, you let yourself into your writing for the first time since you began.”

“Was it an accident?” Tyler felt her hopes fall even as they had begun to climb.  “Did you do something I won’t be able to do again on my own?”

Calliope moved forward until she was standing before Tyler. ”It is inside you. I only unlocked the doors that had been sealed by the fear of failure, ruin and judgment.

“These modern literati understand very little of what it means to move the world with words. I’m here to give you guidance.” She played her fingers across Taylor’s face, and drew her close. She bent over and softly pressed her lips to Tyler’s, taking her breath away. There was promise there; promise of companionship and comfort in the nights. There was also promise of hard work ahead. But the muse had found her, and she wouldn’t resist.

She felt herself, her whole being, surrendering to this Muse who had chosen her.

Calliope stood and held out her hand. Tyler took it. The thrill of Calliope’s touch made her tremble and Calliope caressed her face. As she led Tyler through the hall to her bedroom and touched her tenderly in the dark, a passage from Hesiod came to mind:

He is happy whom the Muses love.

*****

Sam and Bill stood outside Tyler’s door, waiting for the superintendent to unlock her condo. ”I haven’t heard a word from her since the party. She’s not returning my calls or emails,” Sam said.

“She was acting strange at the party,” Bill said. ”If I didn’t know her, I would’ve said she had the first book jitters.”

“There ya go gents. Lock up when you’re done. If you find something…I don’t wanna know about it, right? I’m just the super.” He walked to the elevator and left Bill and Sam alone outside Tyler’s door.

At first look, the condo looked normal; no signs of burglary or attack. They walked through the living room to Tyler’s office. Sam pointed to Tyler’s desk. ”Bill.”

Tyler’s desk was cleared out; all the drawers of the desk and file cabinet were open and empty.

“Jesus,” Bill said, and ran for the bedroom. ”She wouldn’t!” The closet and most of the dresser drawers were half-empty. He smacked his fist on top of the dresser. ”Damn it!”

"Look here, Bill,” Sam said. He held a half-sheet of legal paper. Bill snatched it, and they read: “Hey, guys, I wondered how long it would take you to realize I was gone. Well, with Malone’s Price done, my contract is finished. Sorry, Sam, I never did any of those outlines you wanted. Maybe I knew I wouldn’t be around to finish them. Send the royalty checks to the same place. It’s been great— Ty.”

They looked at each other. ”That bitch!” Bill shouted.

“Ungrateful ass,” Sam agreed.

*****

Thalia talked about poets and writers she had known throughout her life. She no longer had the aspect of an old woman; she had auburn hair falling in waves over tanned shoulders. She was dressed in a shirt and pants of lime green and pink that stuck to every curve and line. Every man who passed their table kept his eyes on her as long as he could, hoping for a glance from those emerald eyes; a smile from those lips. 

But Tyler only had eyes for the woman beside her.  Calliope sat next to Tyler, her fingers running through her hair as Tyler gazed at her between sips of coffee. ”We should probably go or we’ll miss our flight.”  The three gathered their coats and headed for the door; Tyler and Calliope holding hands and whispering and laughing together. Thalia rolled her eyes.

Tyler stopped at the counter. The manager came out of the back room and did a double-take. ”Ms. Kirkland! Where’ve you been? It was all over the news, how you disappeared.”

“We’ll I’m here in plain sight, Walt; so I guess I haven’t disappeared, have I?” Tyler smiled. ”I’m just back in town to take care of some business. We’re on the way out again.

“By the way, here are a few bucks. Next time one of the homeless folks comes in, treat them to a cup of coffee.” She laid down a small wad of twenties and Walter stuttered. His eyes were wide as he looked at the two gorgeous women accompanying Tyler.

"Where have you been?  Where’re you going, Ms. Kirkland?”

Tyler smiled at Calliope and gave her a soft kiss. ”Wherever the muse leads me.”

Quake

The key slides in and the door glides open and shut silently.  Almost a year after the quake the association finally fixed the warped doorframe and replaced the door and hardware.  Now I don’t wake you when I work the late shift.

Cindy has left the stereo on; Helen Jane long’s ‘Porcelain’ sweetens the air and takes the edge off my nerves; it lends a peaceful quiet in the condo I haven’t experienced in weeks.  I go to the status board after I’ve put away my coat and bag, and read her notes for the day.  Past days’ notes linger; med references, therapy notes, an aphasic episode. But today, Cindy has written only three words:

‘A Good Day.’

I smile.  Oh, so few and far between, the good days. 

I shed my clothes bits at a time until I’m in the bathroom.  I take a shower, letting the hot water rinse away the residue of work and worries.  I adjust the spray until it’s a caress.  I close my eyes and let the water mesmerize my senses; until it’s no longer a spray of water but the caress of your hands and lips.  It slides over my shoulders, down my back and over my ass; hot and smooth.  I feel myself stirring and unconsciously shift my weight.  Now a rivulet pouring over my breast becomes your tongue on my nipple.  It tightens, contracts; it’s hard and sensitive and I can’t keep my fingers from catching hold; rolling and pulling until I gasp. 

I’m hard now, and my hand moves down, gliding over my flat stomach, and it’s your hand traveling down, until hot water and fingers surround me; touching the hard flesh and the hot, silky recesses; until I shudder and cry out.  I know you can hear me; I’m holding nothing back as I make myself come.  I give you this moment; a gift.  You know I’m fantasizing about you while I climax.  I picture you in your bed, listening, becoming aroused; the images in your mind as I groan and gasp are a slow, sweet torture, tempered by the remembered delight of driving me over the heights yourself.

I dry myself carelessly; I’ll press my hot and moist skin against yours and let the feel of it drive you even higher into passion. I dab on a bit of perfume; the brand I wore the first night we made love.  Just enough to tantalize you.  I put on a pair of red silk panties; one of a set of a dozen, rolled up like roses, that you gave me for our last anniversary, and a red silk camisole.  Oh, red silk against my still-sensitive privates; so erotic.  I can’t wait to show myself to you.

 The bedside lamplight burnishes your hair to gold and bronze, and although it’s been almost a year since you’ve spent any time in the sun, your skin is still Copper-Tone bronze from the life you led before the quake. 

As I come closer, your aqua-crystal eyes startle and entice from the contrast with your hair and your tan.  They have a shine in them tonight that I haven’t seen in weeks.  The light that trips off your gaze are twin flames through frosted windows.  It’s the old heat you used to switch on like an engine; tonight it’s full throttle.

“Hi, baby,” I whisper, and lean over to kiss you.  Lips, tongue, teeth; all clash and battle for superiority.  I feel your hand on my shoulders, then in my hair, and I have to surrender and let you lay claim to your treasure.  I let you hold me until I’m gasping.  You’re breathing for me; your lips sealed over mine.

Finally, you break the kiss, but your breath isn’t only short from desire.  “Shh, darling,” I say, and I caress your face.  Your eyes close and you nuzzle my palm as I whisper soothing words to you.

“All…all good, my Tess.” You don’t speak much anymore, but when you do, in brings me such joy.  Your voice is throaty and sultry.  Somewhere in the last year, the Scots from your father has come to the fore and the brogue that used to come out only when you were tipsy is full-out all the time.  It’s so sexy, and reminds me of the night we met.

“How’re ya, darlin’?  A long day for ya?”

“Not so long,” I reply.  It’s so good to talk to you, but I can’t keep my hands off you.  Cindy dressed you in your deep lavender silk pajamas; our secret code.  I sit beside you and pull back the covers.  I love the feel of silk on your body. It’s still hard from the life you led before the quake.  The silk over your muscles is erotic and calls to my hands to roam all over you. 

We are so lucky, my love.  So lucky the crossbeam hit you low, so lucky it didn’t crush you, and take away all your movement and feeling.  I share my gratefulness for our luck in a kiss that takes your breath away.  When I pull back, your eyes are on mine.

“Babe.”

Your eyes are smoldering now; you want my hands on you.  I want my hands on you. I touch you; the silk and the hardness of your muscles are making me crazy.  I kneel beside you on the bed and let you undress me.  I only need to help a little bit and that’s good, because when your hands brush against me, I’m too distracted to be much help.

Now I’m naked and I lie next to you.  I kiss you again, letting my hands roam wherever they wish, until your breath whistles in your throat.  I pause for a moment.

“No—no, Tess.  Don’t stop, Tess, don’t—”

A final kiss and I come to my knees, throw one leg over your hips and straddle you.  Your eyes are heavy-

lidded, your chest rises and falls with aroused breath, and as I settle on you, your hips rise to meet me.

“Oh, God, Tess.”

The full moon is shining through the window burnishing half of you in quicksilver while the lamp spills liquid gold over you.  “Turn off the light, babe,” I say.

Your hand shakes as you reach for the switch, and I know it’s from your arousal.  I feel you tremble under me now as I slowly unbutton your pajama shirt.  I tease you, pausing to brush my hand against a silk-clad breast, or tickle your sides; running my fingers up and down your ribs.  I bend often to kiss you, to take your mouth with mine, then trail kisses around your throat and jaw line.

Then I stop.  I slide my finger down the silky strip of skin revealed by your open shirt, from your throat to the last button still fastened over your belly.  I tease your navel, then undo the last button.  My tongue travels back over the trail my fingernail made.

I feel you whisper against my skin, your face pressed into my neck as I kiss your shoulders and neck.  “Oh, God.”  You shiver as I push open your shirt.  Then i move down and take as much time and care removing the Capri-bottoms, until you’re naked under me, and you’re brilliant, magnificent.  Your breasts, your stomach, your shoulders and throat; thighs, face, sex; all silver-blue in the moonlight.  You’re so beautiful, no matter the lighting, no matter where you’re lying.  You’re taking my breath away with no more than a look.

I see the uncertainty in your eyes that makes you turn away from me, but I hold your face in my hands and speak my thought:

“You are beautiful.  You’re my beautiful woman.  Nothing will ever change that.”  I kiss you deeply, sealing the promise in that kiss. 

Now I let my hands roam freely over your body; I can’t help myself, I have to touch you.  Smoothing my palms across your skin; you gasp when I touch a ridge of scar tissue.  Before you can retreat I bend forward and kiss the scar, then the next one and the next.  “So lovely,” I tell you before I cover a breast with kisses. I take your nipple into my mouth.  I feel your hands on my shoulders; I burn where you touch me.  After a moment your hands fall away; I reach for one and entwine my fingers with yours.  Your thumb begins to circle over that spot on my wrist.  So sensitive, so erotic.  No matter where your hands and fingers fall, they arouse me.  I moan as I lick and suck at your nipple, and feel your body respond to me, primal and instinctive, as it never has before.

I begin to move down your body and I feel you rise against me.  I almost start crying for the joy this moment is bringing me.  I trail kisses, lick the ridges of your stomach and ribs, and stroke your thighs with the touch I learned.  I can’t get enough of the taste of you. I kneel between your legs and look up into your eyes.  What was candlelight in a frosted window is now a bonfire and I feel its heat between my legs. 

“I want you, Aidenn.”  I’m surprised to hear the growl in my voice, and delighted to hear the answer in yours.

“Then take me, Tess, na leannan.”

And I take you, remembering every trick of tongue and lips and fingers I’ve learned that drives you into abandon.  You moan deep in your throat, guttural.  It eviscerates me, takes control and my own excitement builds.

You feel it; you know I’m there with you as your hips rise and my tongue strokes.  I reach between my legs and the moment I touch myself I pull you far into my mouth.  We both shudder, then the shudders become convulsions and the cry from your lips sounds like the climax of a choir in my ears.   We are spent together in moments.  Your cry echoes in my head, and it seems the bed is still shaking from our lovemaking. 

 

I rest, my cheek on your thigh.  Our musk fills the air around us.  I stroke your thighs and belly and feel your fingers again in my hair.  Your body is still shaking; after a moment I realize the bedroom is shaking.  I look up, pushing myself up on an elbow.  Your head is thrown back and you cry out.  It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard from you before.  It’s triumphant and wondrous.

Things are breaking in the kitchen, but you just say, “Come here, Tess…my leannan.”

“It’s a quake,” I tell you.  “I’m here.”

“Yes…it is…you are.  We did this.”  I pull you close to me, feeling the heat of your body linger.  You’re still trembling, but there’s no fear here; no pain for now.  “We…did…this.” 

Amid the sound of breaking glass and car horns blasting, and stone and wood creaking, you fall asleep in my arms, at peace for the first time since the quake.

Beth's Rose

...When loss becomes too much, is salvation and redemption to be found in crossing over?

You found me in that dive of a bar where you found me ten years ago.  Broken tile floors, pool tables off-plumb, spotty lighting in the bathroom which is a good thing in places like these, unless you have an overactive imagination.  The bar is just a big counter with cases and coolers and kegs lined up underneath.  The best thing you could ever say about Hubie’s is the beer is cold and the drinks are wet for your dollar.  And it’s not far down the road from home, Beth’s Rose.  I told you once that someday Hubie’s would be my last stop before Hell.  Tonight, I know it’s true.  I intend it to be.

 There’s a little blonde pixie who’s been after me all evening.  Her line of sight comes to right about my tits; frankly, I think she’s just fine with that.  But after three dances with her, and me having nothing to do but look at the top of her head, I send her off with another beer.  All right, I gave her a good kiss, with tongue and gropes and moaning.  I think she’s happy; she tottered off to a table with a big smile on her face.  Some femmes are just too easy.

 The clock hand creeps up the face, closer to midnight.  The bartender has been taking good care of me; a bottle empties and another appears; abracadabra.  She knows I’m here tonight to drink.

 Some time goes by before I realize the beer has stopped coming.  I look up and see that Meg, the bartender is gone.  I don’t recognize the woman who’s taken her place.  I get up to get my replacement and study the woman at the bar.  It’s been too long since I’ve sat and drank at Hubie’s; my equilibrium seems to have gone south.  For a moment I just want to be back at Beth’s Rose; back home.  Then I catch myself on the next table and continue to the bar. 

She’s a pretty twenty-something with pale skin; not a pallor, but perfect china-doll skin that glows under the bar spotlights.  She’s wearing a leather vest, pants and armband.  Her hair is platinum frost, Bonnie Tyler style; the hair of a sultry huntress in an 80’s girl band.  She’s leaning against the counter in classic bartender pose; arms spread wide, hands holding her weight.

“Well, good for you, Cowboy, you finally woke up,” she says.  “It’s about time.” Her voice is just a little rough, but it’s sexy. 

“Waddaya mean? I’m awake.”  Awake and dismayed by the sloppy drunk slur in my words, I hold up my bottle by the neck and waggle it.  “Where’s Meg?”  I blink and peer around the barkeep’s shoulder into the owner’s office.  “And Tony?  Where’d she go?”

The stranger takes my bottle and tosses it into the recycling bin Meg keeps under the bar.  The clank and rattle make me wince; a headache starts.  As I rub my forehead, my fingertips touch the scar and I stop, fighting disorientation for a moment.  It’s already sparring with the barbs in my heart to see which will take control of my mind and body tonight.  Thank God, it’ll be over soon.  One more for the road, then I’m going home.

The bartender frowns at me.  “Tony and Meg went home.  Nobody wanted to try to wake you up.  What’d you do to get such a nasty reputation?”  I stare at her and she shrugs.  “Everybody left; it’s after 2:00 am.  I said I’d wait; lock up and make sure you get home.”

“You’re nuts—” I turn toward the dj booth and find it’s dark.  The dance floor is empty.  The big neon clock over the bar reads 2:48 am. The music I’m hearing is coming from a small boom box behind the bar.  I turn back and the woman is next to me, leaning on her elbows on the bar with her long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.  She’s wearing calf-high leather boots with a buckle on each ankle and silver studs at the top, surrounding her calves.  Another wave of vertigo; it’s nothing to do with the beer.  I need to get home.

Close-up, I see a blue feather extension woven into the barkeep’s hair.  She wears a soft leather armband on her right arm, exquisitely tooled with a Chinese dragon.  Her eyes are sparkling green drops of emerald, and her vest gently hugs her curves; her hips, breasts and waist enhanced and softened by the leather.  She wears a soft blue leather collar matching the feathers in her hair, tooled with the same rampaging dragon. 

“Where’s ev’rybody at?”  My grammar is always much better before the beer. 

 Patiently, she explains it again.  “Nobody would try to wake you up.  I said I’d hang around until you came to, then see that you got home.”

“I was not passed out.”  I’ve got to get back to Beth’s Rose.  There are still things I have to do.

 The frosty blonde barkeep shrugs and I’m distracted by her shoulders.  Pale, smooth, curvy, but strong.  I sit on a stool and watch her finish her closing chores.  Not everyone can pull off leather.  This lady pulls it off so well that for the first time in months something stirs and I find myself thinking I’d like to pull it off.  Stupid.  I shake my head. 

“What’s wrong?” the woman asks.

“Not a thing,” I say, pushing myself back into the present, reaffirming the timeline I set for myself at the beginning of the evening.  I’m going home. I reach into my pocket for my keys.  Then my other pocket.  I check the table, chairs, and floor. Nothing.

 She pushes off the bar.  “Let’s go.”

 “What?”  I’m still trying to find my keys.  “Where?”

 “Your place.”  She tries to put an arm around my shoulders, but I step back and stumble over the stool I was sitting on.

 “What are you doing?”

 She holds up my keys and lets them jingle.  “Hello?  I’m taking you home.”  My hands dive into my pockets; they’re empty.  I look back up at the young woman still jangling my keys and a lightning bolt with my name on it rides into town.  Just another piece of memory sharpened by loss.  As the thunder crashes, it’s you I see holding my keys. The night we met, I wasn’t in any better shape.  

“Hello!” you say.  “You can’t drive me home and it’s time for me to go.  So I’ll drive you to the ranch, and I can bring your truck out tomorrow.”  You looked at your watch and sighed.  “We’re leaving…now.”

 Just as quickly as you came, you’re gone and I’m with leather Bonnie barkeep again.  We’re outside the bar and halfway into the parking lot.  She looks at me oddly when I ask where we’re going.  “Your ranch.  It’s the Beth Rose, right?”  I nod and she seems satisfied.  She gets behind me and gives me a boost up into the cab. 

 “What about your car?”  My truck is the only vehicle parked within five blocks. 

 “I’m set.”

“What’s your name, anyway?”

 “Jerri.  You’re Rand, right? You ‘n your partner run the Beth Rose?”

 “Ran,” I said, letting my frustration, agony and confusion come out in that word.  “Just get me home.”

“Right.  I’m sorry.”

 I’m not paying attention to Jerri’s chatter; I’m watching her drive.  She probably got directions from Tony or Meg but, as easy as it is to find, the Beth’s Rose always takes a couple of wrong turns and backups before they find their way.  This girl is driving the route as if she’s driven it twenty years.  Her hands on the wheel and the gearshift have an easy grace; the truck would follow her direction over a cliff or to the moon.

She parks in the yard and I jump out of the truck.  “Thanks for the ride.  But how’re you getting home?”

“Oh, there’s no problem,” Jerri says and heads for the side porch, under the Beth’s Rose arch.   She breezes past me, leaving me with my hand out for my keys.  My palm remains empty.  “I’ll go in with you.”

 I’m too amazed to be angry.  This is so far outside my experience that my body goes on automatic, doing the first sane thing my neurons and muscles can find to do; I turn and follow her into our house.  Once I get inside I feel less like Alice down the rabbit hole, but now I’m getting mad.  Who the hell is this woman? Granted, she got me home alive, but…

Another strange shimmer in my consciousness.  I shake my head.   I wasn’t going to get distracted this time.  No one has ever walked under the Beth’s Rose arch without an invitation, and I still have things to do tonight.  I hang up my hat and stalk through the kitchen, my boots echoing through the empty house.  I let my anger stoke to take my mind off that awful sound.  I look around, wondering where she’s gotten to.

I stop when I hear the stereo switch on in the den.  “Oh, hell, no!”  “Turn To Stone” by Ingrid Michaelson, your favorite love song.   I’m ready to tear Jerri’s arm off and beat her over that pretty Bonnie Tyler ‘do of hers.  But when I see her, she has become something…other.  She’s looking at our pictures and awards and mementos with tender regard.  There is sorrow and gratitude; hope, love and deep longing.  Jerri turns to me and her eyes are shining with tears and the love she feels in this room.

 There’s something in her eyes that shakes me, and yet another wave of unreality sweeps through me.  It’s getting harder to fight this fugue.  Jerri needs to leave, now.  “Look, you need to go home,” I tell her.  “You can’t stay here.”

Jerri’s body moves easily within the soft leather of her clothing.  The light sound of it sliding over her skin is beginning to distract me.  No.  I shake my head and barely hear her speak.  “You were so in love.”

She’s admiring a collage of us at parties; dressed to kill, or dressed to kill nothing but a big thirst and some moves on the dance floor.  “Yes, we were,” I say.  ‘I’m home,’ I tell myself.  ‘I’m home at Beth’s Rose, and this little girl needs to get through the woods to gramma’s house.  It’s time for this to end.’

We turn toward each other at the same time; my intent is to remove this woman from proximity to my pain, keeping me off balance and making me forget my plan from one moment to the next.  It doesn’t matter, though.  Somehow, she’s gotten the slim case out of my back pocket.  “I’m no nurse, but this seems a little extreme,” she says, opening it and looking at the contents; 500 mg of Phenobarbital.  “I didn’t peg you for a quitter, Rand.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” I’m spitting, can’t believe this woman.  “You don’t know anything about me!”

 Jerri nods and says, “I remember that night.  Has it been so bad since then?”

 I put my hands on my hips.  “If you remember, do you have to ask?  What the hell are you doing here?”

Jerri comes closer.  She reaches out and brushes fingertips over my face.  Another wash of disorientation.  I’d expected cold skin and ice in her gaze from the paleness of her complexion.  But she’s a hot-blooded woman, I learn, as she steps inside my arms. She covers my mouth with hers before I can protest.  Her fingers weave into my hair and she pushes me back against a door; the door; the door to our bedroom.  She guides my hands to the snaps of her vest while she unbuttons my shirt.

Now my head is spinning.  “Jerri, please,” I gasp when she takes a breath.

 “Hush.” She pushes my shirt back over my shoulders and slides it down my arms, returning her hands to my hair.  My own hands have been busy despite my protests.  We both wear tank tops and in moments they’re on the floor with the shirt and vest.

The fugue is taking control; Jessie is whispering endearments only spoken to me by my Beth.  Her hands follow the same patterns.  She pulls my head down and kisses me hard; locks her fingers behind my neck and refuses to let go.  I smell Beth’s scent and start; she brushes her fingers over my eyes.  “Stay closed. You’re home.  Just go with it.”  She steps back and I hear the sound of soft leather sliding against skin.  I feel her heat before she presses against me again.  Her fingers are at my pants; I reach to stop her and strong hands grasp my wrists, pushing my hands behind me.  “Don’t move until I tell you.”

It’s a game you used to play; you loved to tease.  I smell your scent again. Every time it’s more powerful. 

Then Jessie tugs my pants down and she’s pressing against me; we’re skin to skin the lengths of our bodies.  A hand grasps my chin and she explores my jaw, throat and mouth.

 There’s no mistaking this.  I moan your name.  “Beth.”

“It’s me, Randie.  I’m here.”  The door opens behind me and a hand leads me to our bed.  I haven’t slept in here in over a year; it’s been weeks since I’ve been in this room at all.  Your scent is strong now; lavender and roses surrounding me just as your arms are surrounding me now. 

 “How can you be here?” I have to see you; I open my eyes and your image wavers through my tears; Jerri… Beth...Jerri…Beth.  You raise a delicate hand and brush my tears away and there’s my Beth; whole, beautiful and alive.  The sight of you takes my breath away, and then you’re in my arms.  “Oh, God, Beth!”  Your touch turns my body into a superconductor; your fingertips spark a trail across my skin. 

 You push me back on the bed and settle on top of me; your mouth and your hands are everywhere.  “You know I never left you, Randie?”  My answer chokes in my throat as your mouth covers a breast.  “I’ve always been right here. You never doubted, did you?”  I still can’t answer; of course I doubted after…

 I look up into your eyes; clear bright emerald green.  I can’t keep my hands still.  Your skin is warm and smooth and when you moan in my ear my heart wants to dance all around the room.  To have that effect on a woman; on this woman—Then your mouth finds me and I’m senseless to everything but this; the trip of my heartbeat, my body rising, your hands on me, your voice urging me higher.  At the end I can’t breathe and I can still hear the cry of my climax rolling around the room. Now I’m weeping and you fold me into your arms.  You’ve wrung everything out of me and all I can do is lie in your arms and drift away as you whisper and kiss and touch.

 I open my eyes to the blue-gray of pre-dawn straining through the curtains.  I’m alone in the bed.  I start up, tearing the sheet off me, then I see you in the wing-back chair you loved to read in.  You’re sitting as you always did, with your feet tucked up under you.  You’re wearing that tattered blue terry robe.  I get out of bed and pad across the carpet to kneel in front of you.  You’re twirling something in your fingers; the syringe.  I can’t meet your eyes.

 “Five hundred mg’s, Rand.  Really?”

I choke on a rock in my gut and look up.  “You don’t know how bad it is.”

 Your eyes flash.  “Don’t I? It doesn’t matter where I am, you’re not there with me.” You look at me, into me; testing me.  “You’re serious about this, Rand?”

 I meet your gaze.  “Yes.”  No tears now.  I know what’s coming and I’m ready for it.  You’ve been gone too long. 

“This isn’t going to be easy.”

 

A vivid image from that night slams into me between my eyes.  My stomach revolts.  I nearly buckle, but then I kick in my resolve.  I’m home; home is Beth.  If she could endure it, I could endure more. “All right.”

 You stroke my face gently, then kiss me.  You stand and walk to the bed, letting your robe slip to the floor.  God, you’re so beautiful.  Your breasts glow in the dawn light; your shoulders catch the glow, then your face. Now you’re glowing from within and you’ve never been more gorgeous.  You hold out your hand to me. 

“Lie with me, darling.”  In the den, the music still plays.  The playlist recycles again.  You kiss me, slow and sweet.  I barely feel the needle.  A memory of that night tears through me and there is blood and pain.  I’m gasping with the remembrance; I raise shaking hands covered with blood. “Strong, baby.  You’re strong.”  Now my hands and feet are cold; they become numb as the cold reaches for my heart.  “Hang on, sweet Randie.”  The music swells and Christina Perri’s sweet voice reaches us as you wrap your arms and legs around me.  “Come home, love,” you whisper as I feel my breath slow.  My sight dims, but your face is dazzling.  The music fades, but your voice in my ear sings your own song.  The last thing I smell are roses.  And between one heartbeat and eternity, I am home. 

Envoy

Please be aware, this website contains erotica.

Envoy has very simple origins; it was a platform for me to publish a GLBT newsletter in Sioux City, IA. At its peak, Envoy had a circulation of roughly 400. Okay, that might sound small, but for me it was a big deal. Everything came out of my pocket; Envoy was free. It was an acceptable trade-off;  I was writing daily, that's the big deal.

Now I'm resurrecting Envoy Publications as the imprint for my book, Phoenix, due to come out (hopefully) in the Fall; and for more books to come.

I will also be sharing short stories, flash fiction and some poetry as well as news about Phoenix.  I hope you enjoy.