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What You Wish For Pt. 01

By: Rehnquist



Introduction

When I wrote my last story, I promised my next one would be a detective story of some kind. Sorry. I lied. Maybe not really a lie, so much. More like I tried to do it, but the story just kept going nowhere. Then I was out for drinks a month or so back and heard a guy telling his story. It started the way this one starts, and it got me to thinking about why people act the way they do. And it also got me to thinking about the endless criticism I get for not fleshing out my female characters enough–a criticism, granted, that was more muted with The Bar and Grill, bit is valid nonetheless.

So I decided to write this one and see where it took me. Halfway through the outline, it all just clicked. Sure, you may hate it, so the outline may have sucked. But it was easier than hell to write. And, even though the main character and storyteller is a male trying to figure out life after divorce, the more interesting characters–at least the ones I really enjoyed inventing and writing about–are the women. None of them, I think, are really the same. All of them, I fervently hope and pray, are three-dimensional. So be forewarned: Three-dimensional characters have flaws. Sorry, but I'm trying to write about real life.

Before you begin, I want to warn you about a few things. First, this is a 6-part series. Don't, for God's sake, judge the book by the first part. Unless, of course, it really sucks. HarryinVA, please don't hate my main male character until at least part three, but make damned sure you weigh in with your thoughts. All of you, these characters are going to grow as the story goes forward, so please keep an eye out for that.

And DanielQSteele, get your ass moving on When We Were Married! (Sorry, but I'm going to nag you until you're done with it. Despite my comments to the past several chapters, you really are fucking brilliant!)

Thanks to all for taking the time to read this, and particular thanks to those who take the additional time to comment.

CHAPTER ONE

"Beware what you wish for. You just might get it."

I can't count the times my old man said that.

Cliche? Oh yeah.

True? Yep. Definitely. Without a fucking doubt.

Take my marriage, for example. For years, I'd dreamed only of marrying Kristin, having a big house and, eventually, kids, and having a thriving career making tons of money.

Kristin? She wanted–I thought–the same things. Come to think of it, she did want pretty much the same things. You know, a life of leisure and glamor, a happy marriage to her high school sweetheart–that's me–and a big house and a bigger credit limit.

Most of our dreams were realized before they destroyed us.

Truth be told, though, my marriage was dead five years before the paperwork was signed, sealed, and filed with the Clerk of the Court. I just didn't know it at the time.

The cause? Doing what Kristin wanted–chasing those dreams–and moving to West Palm Beach so I could take a high-paying job as a bond salesman.

"West Palm," she said, her pale blue eyes sparkling. "Just imagine, Tyler. Palm trees, beaches, warm sun."

"No snow."

She smiled, one of those thousand-watt smiles showing her perfectly straight, sparking white teeth and the cute little dimples on her cheeks.

"Especially no snow."

"And a good job," I said.

"A great job, baby," she said, leaning in for a tight hug before attacking me with her lips and tongue.

So, based on her initial reaction, I suppose you'll just have to excuse me for being surprised that her dream wasn't all she'd thought it would be.

Still, I didn't expect her to play it quite the way she did. To the contrary, her ultimate actions still stun the hell out of me.

* * * * *

Three years after moving to West Palm, the problems began in earnest. Silly ass me, though, didn't really spot them for what they were. She's just homesick, I thought at the time. Needs to keep her mind off of her sister and parents back in Grant City and stay focused on everything that was going well for us at the time.

By that point, I was the third-highest selling bond salesman in the company, raking in over a quarter mil a year. We had a nice house mortgaged to the hilt, a pair of luxury sedans in the garage, and Kristin had a deep tan and extensive wardrobe. What she didn't have was a job or many friends. Or me, for that matter.

The problem with being such a successful bond salesman–and the reason they paid me a quarter mil a year–was that I was gone half the time. Flying from Dallas to Atlanta, then the Big Easy to the Big Apple, peddling our products to the end salesmen who would sell them to the public or their chosen few customers. When I wasn't flying out two or three weeks a month, I was working seventy hours a week trying to line up new contacts and future sales. All right? Get the picture? I'm a dumb ass, and I should probably have been paying a little better attention back at the home front.

Of course, Kristin grumbled, but that always led to a whole new series of issues.

"Can't you just cut back a little?" she'd say.

"Sure," I'd shrug. "No prob. So long as you can, too."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know exactly what that's supposed to mean. The shopping. Jesus, Kristin, I can cut back all you want. But if I do, we won't have as much money, okay?"

She'd pout over that one. Seeing her pout, I'd try–every damned time, clueless that I was–to point out reality to her.

"Of course," I'd continue, "you could always go get a job yourself, y'know. I mean, you've got a degree."

"But I'm not certified to teach in Florida."

"Then get certified. And when you do, I'll cut back and we'll– "

"I don't want to teach, Tyler," she'd say, usually in a louder voice. "You know that."

Then I'd try every argument I could think of. If she just got a job, she'd meet new people, make new friends, earn more money, not sit at home bored all day, I'd be able to cut back, and so on and so on.

But my arguments fell on deaf ears.

She wanted to have it both ways. She wanted to be taken care of–just like her dad had always taken care of her mom–but she wanted me home every night, too. She wanted the Ward and June Cleaver lifestyle, though considerably more high end than little Beaver Cleaver had ever envisioned.

And me? Well, I wanted to give her what she wanted. She was the one. The love of my life. The only girl I'd ever dated since we'd started going steady as sophomores. Through high school and college and on into marriage, we'd always been together. Everyone told us, right from the start, that we were the perfect couple. Smart, attractive, popular, outgoing. You remember us. The homecoming king and queen for whom everything always came easy.

And, right up until our move to West Palm, everything always had come easy. Then I got into the real world of high finance, though, and found out it required hard work. And long hours. And making sacrifices.

I was ready, willing, and able to make those sacrifices, though. I hadn't come from money. Both Mom and Dad worked their fingers to the bone to make sure Benny and I had everything while growing up. They'd made sure we had our own jobs, too. From fourteen on, I'd cleaned the shop and sharpened the tools and stacked the lumber and done all of the other crappy jobs at Dad's custom cabinet making and woodworking shop, so I knew early on what it was to put in twelve-hour days.

Kristin never understood that, though. Her dad was President of Grant City Savings Bank, and she'd never had a job in her life. Come to think of it, I don't think her mom ever had a job, either. And I know for a damned fact that her sister, Priscilla, never worked. Oh no, not pretty little Priscilla. She'd gotten her teaching degree and certificate, then married the first lawyer she could find. She was happy at home with her four children and her husband breaking his back to keep her happy.

So yeah, you're right. I should've seen it coming from afar. But I didn't, so what're you gonna do? I mean, remember: We'd been together for eleven years; she was the only girl I'd ever dated; and I simply couldn't imagine a life without her.

* * * * *

The situation became critical in Year Four. Looking back on it, with my head finally out of my ass, I see now that I really missed my chance to save our marriage then.

"I wanna go home for a few weeks," she said as I packed my suitcase for a trip to Vegas.

"When?"

"Tomorrow," she said.

"When're you gonna be back?"

She shrugged. "Dunno. Maybe a couple weeks."

"Maybe?"

"Jesus, Tyler, you're gonna be gone for ten days this time. And I'll be here. For ten days. Alone. With nothing to do."

"C'mon, Kristin," I said. "Why don't you just get a– "

"I'm not getting a goddamned job," she yelled. "Get off it already. I don't want that. I want a family. Why can't we just start a family, Tyler?"

This argument had been going on for almost two years, too, but I didn't want to be an absentee dad.

"Can't you just wait a little longer," I pleaded. "Let me get the second mortgage paid off and the first paid down some more. Then I'll be able to afford to cut back on the travel and the hours."

"Yeah. Right. And what the hell am I supposed to do in the meantime?"

"You could help is what you could do," I yelled, surprised at my sudden frustration. "You could use your fucking degree and get a goddamned job and maybe contribute instead of spending every goddamned dime I bust my ass for."

Her initial shock turned to fury. "Fuck you," she said, stomping off. "I'm going home to see my folks. I'll be back when I'm back."

That first stay had lasted nearly a month. I tried calling her every day, but I was back home from my ten-day trip before I caught her at home.

"What're you doing that's keeping you so busy?" I asked.

"You know. Catching up with old friends. Spending time with Cilla and the kids."

My attempts to get more detail, or to even try warming her up to me, were brushed off with vague answers and hollow professions of her love. I'd known it at the time, but was afraid to admit that my marriage may be crashing and burning.

When I offered to take some time and fly up to see her and our families, she just ignored me, so I didn't.

I was treated to the same cold shoulder the next time she flew home about five months later, too.

* * * * *

Ten months after Kristin's first trip home, I returned from a small jaunt to Minneapolis. Five days before Christmas, and I was taking the next two weeks off.

Best of all, while in Minneapolis I'd snared Midlands Financial as a client, all but insuring a steady stream of ongoing sales and–probably–a promotion to that most coveted vice president slot I'd been shooting for. The hours would still be long, probably fifty or more a week at least, but my out-of-town travel would all but disappear. And with the commensurate raise in pay, coupled with the commissions from sales to Midlands, now was the time to start that family.

"I've got a big surprise for you," I'd told her the night before on the phone.

Kristin hadn't seemed all that thrilled, though. No anticipation, no trying to get it out of me. Nothing. Just, "Sure, Tyler. We'll talk when you get back."

But we didn't talk. And we'd never be having that talk, I realized standing in my entry foyer and looking at my nearly-empty living room.

While I was gone, she'd gone about the business of getting gone herself.

She'd left.

Without a word of warning.

CHAPTER TWO

Two weeks later, Sunday morning at ten, my phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Ty, honey, what's going on?"

"Hi Mom," I said, deflating. It wasn't Kristin. "I don't know what's happening. Kristin's gone."

"Why didn't you say anything last week?"

We spoke every Saturday or Sunday. Mom and Dad and me.

"Ty?" she repeated.

"I don't know what's going on. She left. I came back from a work trip and she was gone."

"She's back home," Mom said. "With her folks. I saw Dorothy at the store the other day. She told me."

"She tell you why? Give you a reason? Anything?"

"No, honey. Just that Kristin was back home and living with them."

"What're you gonna do about it, boy?" Dad barked on another line.

"Nothing, Dad. I mean, what can I do about it? Fly up there and beg her to come back?"

"You've got to do something, don't you?" Dad said.

"No, Dad. I don't. She's already done it. Made up her mind. Without even talking to me."

"So that's it? You're just gonna give up?"

"I'm not giving up," I said, my voice getting hot.

"Edwin," Mom said, "leave the boy alone. He's confused."

"Well he needs to be unconfused," Dad argued.

"Dad," I said, settling down and trying to keep them from heating up their own argument. "I came home from a trip. I was promoted. I wanted to tell her I'd be working less and we could start a family. Instead, I walked into an empty house. She was gone. Along with most of the furniture. I'm sleeping on the goddamned love seat, okay? No talk, no phone call, no note. Nothing."

"Oh honey," Mom pined.

"Uh huh," Dad said.

"So I'm pretty sure chasing her up to Grant City and begging her to come back would kinda be a waste of time, okay? I mean, she won't even return my calls."

Dad and Mom sighed in unison.

* * * * *

A week later, I was personally served with Summons on Kristin's Petition for Dissolution of Marriage. I think that's legalese for "I'm Moving On, Sucker."

* * * * * 

Let's cut to the chase on the divorce. Kristin filed for divorce in Lincoln County, Illinois, which is where we were from and where she was now back living with her folks. The thought of going back home for the divorce was galling, particularly where I'd be taking time off of work and she wasn't working at all. Thus, I sought and obtained a transfer of the action to Palm Beach County, Florida.

That pissed her off, and she decided to hire a real shark. My shark was bigger, though, and she ended up getting a sound thrashing in the blindingly fast divorce action. It was all so simple, apparently, because we had only my one income, a house, no kids, minimal debt, and only a few (healthy) accounts.

The lawyers hashed out nearly everything without the judge's involvement. Since she'd taken all of the furniture, she was ordered to pay the credit cards that were used to buy the furniture. That, of course, came out of her equal share of the equity in our marital residence, which had sold for top dollar two months after she left in the then-hot Florida real estate market. 

The only thing the judge needed to decide was alimony. So Kristin had to fly down and attend one session of court. I must say, the starchy, carb-intense Midwestern diet didn't seem to be agreeing with her. She looked a little puffier than I remembered, maybe fifteen pounds heavier. She definitely had the I-fucking-hate-you glare, though.

Anyway, that alimony thing. Kristin sought four grand a month for three years and then it would be reviewed; I sought no alimony at all. The judge, a crotchety old bastard with wisps of gray hairs shooting from his head, ears, nose, and eyebrows and a voice like a rasp, laughed out loud at Kristin's request, and turned a sad eye to my refusal to pay anything. He gave her one year, two grand a month, and I'd never have to pay her another dime. Whatever. It was less than ten percent of my take home pay.

When the bailiff called the recess signifying the end of our case, Kristin stormed from the courthouse without another word. Priscilla shot me a flaming stare, then hurried after her sister.

I just stood there, still just as goddamned clueless as I'd been when first entering my empty house a mere three months before. No note, no e-mail, no voicemail message. When I called to speak with her, she refused to talk with me. Nothing. More than a decade together, and I didn't even merit a fucking explanation.

Was I mad? Nope. I was tired. Befuddled. Confused. Worn down by the whole sorry affair.

What caused it? Barring her explanation, which she didn't seem to want to share with me, I was left to simple conjecture. She was lonely and away from her family. She was lonely with me working all the time. She wanted a family, and I wasn't ready yet.

The sad part is that most of her loneliness had been cured the day I found out she left me. We could now have that family. I'd be home almost all the time. We'd be together more.

Apparently, it was too little, too late.

So there I stood, weary to the bone, watching that courtroom door close behind my ex-wife. The only woman I'd ever loved. The only woman I'd ever been with and ever wanted to be with.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, a gentle weight.

"Sorry, son," the judge said, now standing beside me. His voice was soft, like he could read my absolute emptiness. "It'll get better. Just give it time."

I could only nod, not trusting myself to speak lest I cry like a babe.

CHAPTER THREE

Suddenly single, albeit involuntarily, there seemed to be three paths open to me.

First, I could go out and validate that I was still a great guy. To do that, of course, meant that I'd have to spend every waking hour trying to bang every chick in sight. This seemed to have its benefits, of course. Obviously, I'd be expanding my horizons sexually, which had its appeal. Let's face it: Experience wasn't exactly my forte where I'd only been with one woman my entire life. What if I sucked and became a laughingstock?

Second, I could bury myself in my work, in which case I'd probably make even more money that I didn't really need and guarantee absolutely no free time to try finding a life outside of work. Also, I'd only been working so hard to make ends meet and to give Kristin what I thought she'd wanted to be happy. Nevertheless, my old man always seemed to say it best. "Do you want to work to live or live to work?" Now that my salary was topping three hundred grand a year, I decided to work to live.

Third, I could just say fuck it. Quit my job, move, take up a whole new life. That also had a certain amount of appeal. Hell, who doesn't just want to shed everything that's wrong and start anew in some strange place with total strangers who don't serve as a constant reminder that you're a marital failure? It had a certain adventurous panache that appealed to me. You know, a Jack Kerouac thing.

After long thought–at least the time it took me to drink two margaritas–I settled on a course of action. It was going to be all three. I'd work my ass off and go somewhere new, start fresh. I'd be working my ass off on my college major, though. English, not sales or finance. (You'd be amazed how many salesmen are English majors; I mean, other than teach, what the hell else do you do with an English degree?) I wanted to write. I'd loved it in high school and college, but never had the time for it with marriage and work taking all of my energies.

Well, there was no time better than the present, and it seemed the perfect way to get my mind off my life. So I'd spend every spare moment outside work writing. When writer's block hit, I'd go to clubs and try to get laid. No relationships, mind you. I was an emotional train wreck, and the thought of getting closer to a woman than hot, frantic sex made me want to barf. Still, hot, frantic sex sounded pretty good.

I started that very night. I'll never forget it. Most people spend the day of their divorce getting drunk or trying to get laid, but I spent the rest of the afternoon in my apartment trying to come up with story ideas. What if . . . this? What if . . . that? What if . . . a man's wife leaves him for no reason? Then she disappears? And no one knows where she is? And he's lost without her, and consumed with finding her, and is torn over whether she's been killed, kidnapped, or just plain run off?

This guy, the poor bastard whose wife has run off. Let's make him a . . . bond salesman? Too boring. A . . . private investigator? Too cliche. A . . . oh man, I'm close . . . a sheriff? Yeah. A small town deputy sheriff. In a backwards nowhere. Who's beaten down by his job and his existence and the only bright, shining beacon in his universe is the wife who was always too good for him. Close. How about a police lieutenant? After all, it seemed far fetched to think a sheriff could get a month off to find his wife. But where's he live and work? How about Rockford, Illinois, a bigger city of a hundred fifty thousand or so about forty miles from Grant City. That seemed to work better.


What You Wish For Pt. 01



That's how it started: With a series of what ifs. Wild permutations of my own crazy situation, my own fucked up what if. What if the only woman you ever loved decides she no longer loves you? Or loves someone else more?

Or maybe even never really loved you in the first place?

* * * * *

Two months into the outline, Mom called unexpectedly on a Tuesday night.

"She's getting married," Mom said, her voice sad.

"Kristin?" I said, stunned she'd replaced me so fast.

"Kristin," Mom confirmed. "To Randy Walters."

"The cop?"

"The very same."

"That didn't take her long," I said.

"I guess it started even before she left you," Mom said. "That's the talk anyways. They were hooking up when she started coming back here to visit her folks."

Fucking bitch.

"And," Mom said, pausing before rushing the rest out in a flurry, "she's pregnant."

I was thunderstruck. That fucking cold, conniving, heartless, slutty, manipulative, vindictive, narcissistic, evil . . . .

"Say something, honey," Mom interrupted my mental tirade with.

"What's to say?" Dad cut in. "Fuck her."

"Edwin," Mom gasped. Dad almost never swore around Mom. Not unless he was seriously pissed.

"No, Mom," I said, gritting my teeth. "Dad's right. Fuck her."

The phone was silent for a moment after Mom's second, and more audible, gasp at my profanity.

"So what do Dorothy and LaVerne say about their little princess now?" I said.

"They're upset," Mom said.

"LaVerne's still acting like his shit don't stink," Dad cut in.

"But he's forcing it, Edwin. You saw it. And Dorothy couldn't even look anyone in the eye when she was talking about it."

"Good," I pronounced. "Nice to see Kristin's now disappointed or hurt someone other than me, huh?"

"No, Tyler, that's not good," Dad said, his voice going softer. "That's not good at all. It's bad enough she hurt you. But heaping this embarrassment on her family only makes it worse."

"What's to be embarrassed about?" I said. "She's back home. They've got their precious little princess back in town, and now they can see her all the time. And their new baby with that prick Randy Walters. And they can continue–they and Priscilla, for that matter–they can continue to tell her about how special she is. And her fucking brat, too."

"You're hurting, Tyler," Mom said. "We know that. But don't let the anger turn to hatred. Don't let it eat you up, honey. Please. Don't do that."

"That which doesn't kill us only makes us stronger," I said.

"Or rots us to the core," Dad added.

But I didn't feel rotten to the core. Not even the littlest bit. No, Kristin was rotten to the core.

I was just the dumbass who kept his head in the sand when all the signals were there. I was just the fucking sap who was willing to look the other way so I could preserve something that was already spoiled.

The good news was my alimony was going to be ending before the year was out. Apparently, her marriage terminated my maintenance payments effective the date she married the cocksucker.

So there you go, Kristin. Suck on that.

* * * * *

After that phone conversation, the outline took a darker turn than the initially-planned happy ending. Way darker.

Two months later, writing like a demon possessed every night from six to midnight and from ten to four or five on weekends, I had a complete outline of my first novel. The character biographies had been written while I was plodding through the outline, and they were continuously fleshed out as the outline progressed.

Then, suddenly, there I sat. Ten thirty at night all these months later–nine months after she left me; six months after starting–with the outline complete.

That's when I realized I hadn't been laid in more than nine months. Hell, I hadn't even thought about getting laid. Now, though, with the first step in my new life done, I realized my balls were set to explode if relief wasn't coming soon. Pardon the pun.

Either way, the actual writing would definitely have to wait another day or two.

* * * * *

Ten thirty seemed a bit late to be going out, but West Palm is a ritzy area with nightclubs galore and tons of young people. For whatever reason, none of which I could remember from when I was younger, the twenty-five and unders never bothered showing up until after nine. Thus, there seemed to be half a shot of getting laid on a Thursday night at ten-thirty.

A half hour later found me in Matt's, a sports bar meets dance club with a packed parking lot. Working my way through the doors and to the bar, I was smiled at, given the glance, or lightly brushed by at least ten good looking chicks dressed to the nines and apparently bored with whomever else they were with. At least three of them had wedding rings, too, which almost made me bolt before my first beer.

Finally, though, beer in hand, I made my way to a table near the dance floor. If nothing else, I could entertain myself watching men who thought they could dance jiggling out of beat with the slinky beach babes who seemed to be dancing with themselves in their own little worlds. Unfortunately, watching the gaggle of scantily clad women writhing on the floor with their faux hipster male companions drove home a simple point I'd previously overlooked.

How the fuck do I pick someone up?

Remember, I'd only asked one person out on a date in my life. Kristin. Almost twelve years before. While we were in high school, for Chrissake.

Since that fateful day, I'd never needed to hit on another chick. Sure, there were the innocent flirtations with women in the office, but both sides knew that was going nowhere. Hell, I wouldn't even know the signals if they were in neon lights flashing in my goddamned face.

"Hello," a cool voice with soft Southern accent said to my right, interrupting my thoughts.

I turned, a deer-in-the-headlights look no doubt overtaking my features.

She stifled a laugh at my reaction, then raised her eyebrows and nodded to the empty chair across from me.

I looked from the chair to her then back again. "Oh," I said, standing so fast the table almost went over. "Sure. Please. Sorry."

She didn't bother hiding her amusement now.

"First time here?" she said, sliding into the chair across from me.

I nodded.

"I'm Susan," she said, stretching her arm across the table.

"Tyler," I said, shaking her cool, surprisingly strong hand.

She was tall, dark, and beautiful. Long, shining black hair framed a model's face with high cheekbones and full lips, bright green eyes sparkling in the dance lights. She appeared to be my age–twenty-eight or so, give or take a few years–but her body was toned like a high school cheerleader with clear muscle definition and full breasts sitting high on her chest. Her slinky, bright green dress showed off her flawless complexion, brilliant eyes, and killer body to perfection.

Those eyes were appraising me now.

"So, Tyler," she said, sipping her drink through a straw while fixing me with her stare. "What brings you out tonight?"

Her forthright demeanor was startling. It was clear what she wanted, and she was brazenly trying to find out if I was looking for the same thing.

I think.

I didn't–

"How long you been divorced?" she said.

"That obvious?"

"'Fraid so."

"Six months," I sighed, answering her initial question. "Nine since she left, six since the divorce was done."

"And this is your first time out since?"

I nodded, trying to decide whether to get out before I made a bigger fool of myself.

"She must've been something," Susan continued. "Most are out here within a week of the divorce. You waited six whole months. Hell, nine, actually."

"Yeah . . . well . . . I'm not really . . . you know– "

"Been a long time since you've done this, right?" she said.

I nodded.

"And you have no idea anymore, right?"

"Right."

"Okay," she said, finishing her drink before pushing it aside. "Here's how it goes. You're pretty good looking, okay?"

I only stared at her in return, not sure whether to say anything.

"And I don't have a lot of time," she continued. "So I'm gonna put it to you simply. You wanna get out of here?"

My eyes went wide. It was simple as that? Just show up, be alone, and some goddess is going to pick me up and offer to screw me blind?

She laughed, a deep, throaty laugh. "I guess we can go through the formalities. You know, you buy me a few drinks and I play hard to get for an hour or so. Then we dance a few times. We start with the faster numbers and, finally, when the slow song hits I make it known I'm available and interested. You prefer that?"

"Well . . . I . . . . um . . . . What do you prefer?"

She laughed, pushing back her chair and standing.

"This is gonna be fun," she said, holding her hand out to mine. "Like with a virgin."

She had no idea how close to the truth that was.

"Let's not waste any time with the formalities," she said. "I've got to be to work early, so come on."

We drove in separate cars to my place.

Upon entering, she looked around.

"Nice. Better than most bachelor pads. Particularly the divorced ones."

As she spoke, I watched her slide her dress over her shoulders and to the floor.

"Well?" she said, looking at me expectantly.

I could only stare at her incredible body now clad only in a skimpy, matching white lace bra and panty set and high-heeled sandals.

Her grin turned devilish. "Like what you see?"

She walked to me, but I was too frozen to do anything but stare.

"You can say something," she said, leaning in and blowing a hint of a breeze into my ear. "I won't bite. Yet."

My hands went to her ribs and stroked her smooth skin, feeling her ribs around to her backbone.

"That's better," she encouraged, her fingers going to my shirt and releasing the buttons one by one. Her lips followed. First to the side of my neck, then the hollow near my clavicle, then down my chest until she was kneeling at my feet.

"Might as well get the first one out of the way quickly, right?" she said, her fingers unbuckling my belt before unsnapping and unzipping my trousers and pulling them down to my feet.

"Very nice, Tyler," she whispered, her breath hot on my painfully throbbing erection.

I could only moan in response, my hands stroking her shoulders as I tried to keep from losing it then and there.

Well, despite her best efforts–and they were pretty goddamned good; awesome to be more accurate–I managed to last for at least a minute before shooting months of pent up sex all over her now naked breasts and belly.

I will say, though, that the second time I lasted a lot longer. She seemed to think it was pretty good, too. If you're judging by her multiple orgasms as she put me through the full workout of positions. Missionary, her bent over the back of the couch, then her on top facing away before pivoting and smothering me with her marvelous tits as we finished together.

"Well," she said, gathering up her clothes as I laid naked on the couch, watching her.

"Well," I agreed.

She turned and smiled at me. "I don't really . . . . I've got court in the morning."

"Court?" I said. Who had I just been banging? Charlie Manson's love child?

"I'm a lawyer," she said.

My eyebrows shot up. A lawyer?

"Don't give me that look," she said. "You of all people should know what it's like."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning," she said, looking at the stack of folders and print outs on my dining room table and covering most of my kitchen counter, "that we both work high pressure, long hour jobs. I don't have the time for a relationship, okay? Doesn't mean I don't have needs. Like this."

I smiled. "I'm not judging you, Susan. Really. I mean, c'mon, me of all people."

"Then why the look?" she said, her dander going back to normal.

"Just surprised is all," I said. "You know. You're beautiful. And now I find out–afterwards, no less–that you're also intelligent and successful and everything. I mean, I've just never really done this before. I guess I just didn't expect it, y'know?"

She nodded, then smiled. She stood, straightening her dress before walking to me and leaning over.

"Well, Tyler Whatever-Your-Last-Name-Is, you wanna play this game, you might as well get used to surprises like this."

She leaned in and kissed me on the lips.

"So that means– "

"This is it," she said. "Maybe we'll run into each other again, maybe not. You know, play it by ear. Okay?"

I nodded, both upset and relieved at the same time. Upset because the whole thing felt somehow cheap and hollow. Relieved that she didn't expect anything more from me.

* * * * *

It was another month before I could go out and again try to get laid. In the meantime, all of my spare hours away from work were spent in my den, writing and writing and writing some more.

Though only a month had passed since the outline was finished, the writing came very quickly. I'd fleshed out the outline in great detail, so it was just a matter of filling in descriptive prose and dialogue, which seemed to fly from my fingertips, through the keyboard, and onto the screen. After a month, I was nearly a third of the way through the outline and my first completed novel.

That's when my suppressed physical urges again reared their ugly head. It was a Saturday afternoon, a little past four, and I'd been at the computer for almost eight hours. Having just finished with a romantic flashback scene, I was feeling randy and couldn't get the images of sex from my mind. Feeling my enthusiasm for writing fade in direct proportion to my need to get boned, I saved my work and backed it up before hopping into the shower.

The shower didn't help things at all. The images of sex, both with Kristin and–more vividly–with Susan, only served to increase my arousal. Deciding I didn't want to embarrass myself again should I manage to pick someone up, I took care of things in the shower and hoped it would tide me over.

An hour out of the shower, though, I was still aroused. Deciding not to fight it, I dressed in a pair of khakis and a pale blue oxford shirt with sandals and made my way back to Matt's.

Cutting to the chase, I was there about three hours, going through the buying drinks and dancing thing, when I was leaving again, this time with a sizzling little Cuban named Sophia Martinez on my arm. Again, it was an evening of mind blowing sex. Again, it ended when she pecked me on the lips, thanked me, and took off at half past midnight.

* * * * *

The next morning over coffee, I stared out the sliding glass door of my apartment at the gray waters and skies over the Atlantic, contemplating my love life. A few things cropped up immediately.

First, sex when you're single is way different than sex when you're married. Bachelor sex is way more selfish. From both sides. All I wanted to do was whatever I it took to maximize my own pleasure. All Susan and Sophia had wanted to do was, likewise, maximize their own pleasure.

Second, there was a lot more direction going on. "Yeah," they'd both said more times than I could count, "just like that." Or, "There. Right there." And, of course, "Faster." After the first dozen or so times with Kristin, direction had been unnecessary. She had always sensed what I wanted, and I sure as hell knew how to push her buttons.

Third, despite the selfishness on both sides, there was also a tentativeness, a hesitation to really go all out. "If I do this," I'd thought several times, "will she get pissed and leave? Will it kill the mood?" Sophia had practically had to beg be to slip it into her ass. Sure I'd wanted to, but that can be a real mood killer if the girl isn't into it. God knows it had killed the mood more than once with Kristin unless she was really, really drunk.

Fourth, I hate condoms. Kristin and I had only used them the first year we were together, at which time she'd gone on the pill. There was never any fear of disease or pregnancy after that, so I hadn't sheathed up in more than a decade. Now, though, condoms were a must. Let's face it, both sides were sleeping around, and the thought of AIDS kept me conscious of the need for protection. Unfortunately, that thin covering desensitized my poor pecker to the point where it took a hell of a lot more effort to get off. Not that either of the girls had cared, mind you. Jesus, I could jackhammer them for twenty minutes or more and increase their pleasure, and I'm pretty sure neither really cared that much about mine.

Finally, the whole thing just seemed so . . . so . . . impersonal. Almost like each side of the equation was just a flesh and bones fuck doll to be used for pleasure then cast aside like last year's Christmas present. The sex was certainly fun while it lasted, but the emotional toll afterwards almost canceled it out.

Was I ever going to get used to this?

On the other hand, there was no way I was going to be chasing after a real girlfriend or a real relationship anytime soon.

Finishing my second cup of coffee, I reached my decision. My life was good right now. A little lonely to be sure, but still good. The book was progressing, work was going gangbusters, and I was getting laid when the pressures reached a crescendo. If mindless sex with strangers was the price to pay for everything else that was going well, then so be it.

I vowed to set aside every Saturday night for myself and my efforts to get laid. Maybe I'd just get used to it, maybe I wouldn't. If it became too much, I'd just stop.

I know. Some dilemma, huh? A year ago I was faced with marital sex with one woman for the rest of my life. I'll grant you she was–and still is–one hot woman, so that thought wasn't exactly beating me down. Still, wild unbridled sex with hordes of hot chicks is supposed to be every man's dream, right?

So here I was. Something else I wished for and, when I got it, it wasn't all it was cracked up to be. But it was still better than my right hand.

CHAPTER FOUR

Five months and about a dozen forgotten nights of sexual bliss later, I was done with my first ever novel. Three hundred fifty thousand plus words of a man's tortuous journey to find out where she went and why. Half mystery, half betrayal, half suspenseful thriller. If that sounds like too many halves, it's because there was a lot packed into this first novel.

And it wasn't a first draft, either. I'd edited it twice, getting rid of the typos, tightening up some scenes and expanding on others, changing some nuances of speech here and there and everywhere.

It was another Saturday evening, a little past seven, and I just stared at the screen.

"What now?" I said aloud.

Because I didn't know what to do now. Another night cruising for mindless sex with a hot beach bimbo seemed out of the question. The thought didn't even stir my loins, truth be told. And I realized that was now done. No more. Hell, I couldn't even remember half their names. After Susan and Sophia, there'd been that redhead with big tits, then the brunette with bigger tits, then another Cuban chick with dancer's legs and gymnastic flexibility, then . . . then some more chicks. Never the same one twice.

Cruising for sex out of the question, I faced my more immediate problem. I've written a book, so what the hell do I do with it? Clueless, I started surfing the net.

By the end of the weekend, I'd made a list of things to do to see if I could get this behemoth that had taken thirteen months of my life.

Thing-to-do number one: Find an agent. Publishers rarely even look at manuscripts submitted cold, so I'd need an agent to read the book and, if it was good enough, market the thing to a publisher.

I spent the next week drafting cover letters to two dozen agents in New York, Miami, and Los Angeles. A copy of the manuscript went into each. (Don't ask me how much it cost to make forty copies of the manuscript. Just go buy stock in Kinkos, because they took a friggin' mint from me.)




What You Wish For Pt. 01



Then I started writing another novel. It didn't come as quickly this time, though. It took me almost a month to get the complete list of what ifs set up and answered to my satisfaction before I was ready to start the outline.

The end of that month, having already received eleven rejection letters from a slew of agents, I decided to go out. No, not to get laid. Just go out and get something to eat and have a few margaritas and watch people have fun.

"Still alone I see," the voice behind me said as sipped my second margarita.

I didn't even need to turn around to know who it was.

"How are you, Susan?"

"Very good," she said, snaking between the chairs and sitting opposite me. "And I thought you'd forget."

I smiled. "Hard to forget your first time."

She laughed.

I flagged down a waitress, pointed to Susan and then to my nearly empty glass. The waitress only nodded before rushing to the bar to fill our drink order.

"Thank you," Susan said. She didn't look much different than when I'd seen her those many months before. Same killer body, encased this time in a tight white dress, and her dark hair seemed a little straighter and a little shorter. Otherwise, it was the same Susan.

"So what brings you here?" I said, grinning and raising my eyebrows as I said it.

She smiled and shrugged in return. "Probably the same thing that brings you here."

I shook my head. "Not this time. I'm a little tired of that."

Her eyebrows went up, her face saying she didn't really believe me.

"Seriously," I said. "I just . . . you know . . . guess I'm not really built that way."

"You seemed built just fine," she said. "Sure I didn't just turn you off to the whole thing?"

I laughed. "Oh no. I've had my share of . . . others. And they were good, don't get me wrong. But . . . I don't know. I guess it's just not for me."

Her face went soft, and she leaned over the table and placed her hand on mine. "It was pretty obvious at the time, tell you the truth. You're one of the good ones, you know?"

"How so?"

"You're marriage material. It's against your grain to just keep going with a string of different women. You need more."

"And you could tell that from just that one evening?"

She nodded. "Even before we left here to go back to your place. Plain as the nose on your face, Tyler."

"You remember my name," I said, surprised.

She laughed, but it wasn't a happy laugh. "I don't remember a lot of the names. Your name, though, I remember."

I felt puffed up by this.

"I was that good?"

She laughed, merriment and a twinge of regret in her eyes. "In ways you'll never really know, babe. Yeah, you were–and are–that good."

Our drinks arrived and we were silent for a few moments, sipping and watching the dance floor.

"Don't you have any friends around here?" she said out of the blue.

I was silent before answering, thinking about how to take the question.

"Some. People I work with. We go out sometimes. After work. Maybe a few house parties."

She shook her head. "Not like that. I mean friends, not just acquaintances you see every day and talk to about work and stuff. I mean buddies you watch football games with, go hunting with. People like that."

I shook my head. "Guess not."

"Pretty sad," she said. "I mean, you're a nice guy. Easy to talk to, seem to give a shit about people. So what are you doing when you're not working? I mean, you're not out chasing women anymore. What're you doing with all of your time?"

"Writing," I said. "Books. Just finished one a month or so back."

"You're a writer?"

I shook my head. "Bond salesman. Vice President at McDaniels Smyth."

"A bond salesman who writes books in his spare time," she said. "A bit out of the ordinary."

She pondered this, giving me an appraising look.

"So when do I get to read this book?" she said.

I laughed. "Probably never. I doubt anyone's really going to publish it."

"Then why do it?"

"Because I like writing."

"More than you like people?"

That was a tough question, and I mulled it over in my mind.

When did this happen to me? I'd been surrounded by friends–real friends; close friends–in high school and college. I didn't even know what any of them were doing anymore. We'd all lost touch. I'd lost touch. And when I was married, Kristin had seemed enough. Between work and home, I'd never had any real time to make friends.

I'd been in Florida for more than six years, and I didn't have a damned friend for five hundred miles.

"Sorry," Susan said after a few moments of silence.

I tried to smile. "No. That's okay. It just made me realize a few things."

She tried to smile, but it was a sad smile. "This isn't really going so well, is it?"

I smiled. "It's going fine. Really. Let me get you another drink. If you're not in a hurry or anything."

"Sure," she said.

I motioned for fresh drinks, and the waitress was back with them in a flash.

"So you're a lawyer," I said, breaking the silence.

"Uh huh."

"You know any agents by chance? Maybe one that will give me at least a reading? A shot?"

I know. I was pushing it. But it seemed worth a shot, and her face told me she was mulling it over. Then a flash went across her eyes, and a few seconds later her lips broadened into a grin. A lascivious grin.

"I might," she said. "What's it worth to you?"

"I told you. I'm out of that game."

She shrugged. "Then what've you got to offer to make it worth my while?"

"Money?"

She shook her head. "Got that."

"My undying gratitude?"

"Not good enough."

"Dinner?"

"You've already eaten."

I looked at her. "What's it going to cost me? Just tonight?"

She put on an exaggerated look of hurt. "Am I that bad?"

I smiled. "You know better than that. It's just that– "

"The weekend," she said, her eyes fixing on mine. "Starting right now."

"But it's already Saturday night," I said. "So when you say the weekend. . . ."

"I mean I want to actually sleep with you. In your bed. Wake up with you. I wanna know what that's like, okay? And then spend tomorrow with you. Through dinner."

"But you could get that from half the guys here," I protested.

"But you're not half the guys here," she countered. "I don't feel cheap when I'm with you, okay? I want to know what a guy like you–a guy who looks at me like something more than a receptacle to get his rocks off–what a guy like that is like to spend time with."

"You want to date," I said.

She shook her head. "Sorry, sport. My situation's not really changed much. I'm still on the road half the time and burning the midnight candles when I'm back at home base. So I'm not dating material. No, I just want to know–even if just for a day–what it is I'm giving up here."

I thought about what she had said. Truth be told, I felt sorry for her. She was successful, that much was apparent in her jewelry and dress, which had to cost a pretty penny. And she was on the road to do her lawyering, so she had to be with a bigger firm that probably handled bigger clients and bigger cases. So she had achieved all of her dreams, and now she wanted to know what they had cost her.

Frankly, I'd let her spend the night on these terms without the quid pro quo. Still, if she was willing to help me and all.

Does that make me a whore?

* * * * *

I could tell she was awake. Her breathing was softer and more rhythmic, none of the soft hum of her light snoring from only a few minutes before. She was laying on her side facing me, her long black hair cascading over her face and the pillow. I could still see her face through the soft tangle, though, and I watched her lips twitch and her eyes scrunch closed even more.

"Please tell me you're not watching me," she whispered.

"I'm not watching you," I said.

She opened your eyes. "Liar."

"You're just as beautiful this morning as you were last night."

She snorted her disbelief.

"I'm serious," I said. "So peaceful and quiet and calm."

Her features softened.

"And last night," I continued. "Well, let's just say you got some serious snoring in. It was like sleeping with a . . . well . . . . Ouch!"

She slapped the side of my head. "Careful, buster."

We laughed together. Then I leaned in to kiss her.

"No," she said, backing away. "I've got morning breath."

"Suit yourself," I said, sliding out of bed and moving toward the bathroom.

Done getting rid of four margaritas and the multiple glasses of water that had kept my energies going the night before, I started brushing my teeth.

"Mind if I join you?" she said.

I turned to see her standing in the doorway wearing one of my old sweatshirts. And nothing else.

I waved her in before rinsing my mouth.

"Spare toothbrush in here," I said, opening a drawer and pointing at five toothbrushes still in their wrapping.

"Someone has a serious toothbrush fetish," she said.

"Amongst other fetishes."

"Tell me about it," she laughed, her fingertips trailing to between her legs. She saw me looking, turned beet red, and jerked her hand away.

We shared the sink, her flossing then brushing her teeth while I shaved.

Then we showered.

Together.

And it was really, really, really nice.

* * * * *

So did we spend the whole day screwing each other silly?

Sorry. That's pure fantasy. Twice the night before had almost emptied me enough to prevent the morning's activities.

Instead, we spent the day walking the beach and having a burger at a beach shack for lunch.

Then we went back to my apartment for a nap. Before taking the nap, though, she convinced me–nay, proved to me–that I'd had enough time to recharge the batteries. And it was the best sex I'd had since before Kristin left. We knew each other well enough now, Susan and I, that direction wasn't necessary. I knew her buttons, and I particularly knew the most effective way of working her main button. And based on my rejuvenated John Thomas, she knew my buttons, too.

So it was a long, foreplay intense session of mattress mambo. Go at it, stop and lick and suck and touch some more, go a little longer, back to those little pokies on the ends of her breasts, and so on.

We were both ready for the nap by the time it was over, and I spooned her as we slept.

Her movement two hours later awoke me from a sound slumber filled with the happiest dreams I'd had in a long time. Peaceful dreams. Dreams that left me content when I awoke.

When I opened my eyes, a lazy smile on my lips, Susan was sitting on the side of the bed staring at me. And she was sad.

"You ever wonder if you've made the wrong choices in life?"

"Every day," I said.

"Not just the little things," she explained. "I mean the big things. Things like– "

"I know exactly what you mean," I said. "And I've spent every day for the past year and a half wondering whether my great job and great pay were really worth it."

She nodded, sympathy flooding her features before sadness returned.

"This was a mistake," she said.

"Why?"

"Because," she said. "Before last night, I had these twinges, y'know? These fleeting thoughts that there was more to life than just my career. Maybe a family. A husband I love." A tear trickled down her cheek. "Waking up with someone I love and spending a day just like we spent today."

She turned away, and I sat up and stroked her back.

"But now I know what I'm missing," she continued. "It's like I've seen what I could have, but I can't really have it."

"It's not too late, you know," I said softly. "You can still have those things. I mean, you're what? Twenty-six? Twenty-seven?"

"I'll be thirty in three weeks," she said.

"Thirty's the new twenty," I said, pulling her back into me and holding her. "I don't know you very well, but I do know at least a few things about you."

"Like what?" she said, snuggling back into me as I brushed the tears from her face.

"Well, I know you can accomplish whatever you set your mind to. You've done it in your career so far, right?" She nodded. "Then you can learn to quit working so damned hard and make the adjustments and give yourself a chance to meet someone special, right?"

"It's not that easy," she said.

"No. It's not. I'll give you that. It would probably mean you'd have to work somewhere else. For people who don't all work themselves to death seven days a week. But there are places like that, right? Even lawyers, I suppose."

She laughed, then her voice went soft. "You make it sound so easy."

I was silent for a minute. "It's not."

"What's not?" she said.

"It's not easy," I said. "If it was, I'd have done it by now. In my own life."

"Is that why you're divorced?"

I didn't really know how to answer that. Frankly, I still wasn't sure why Kristin was gone. Sure, there was Randy Walters and, now, their new baby. But which came first? Me working too much or Randy Walters?

"I don't really know," I finally answered. "At least in part, I guess. Probably a large part. But I don't really think that was all of it."

Susan turned and faced me, kissing me full on the lips before hugging me in a death grip.

"Well she sure made one hell of a mistake, Tyler Whatever-Your-Name-Is."

"It's Collins," I said. "Tyler Collins."

"And I'm Karapova," she said. "Susan Karapova."

I gave a mock gasp. "You mean I'm sleeping with a Commie?"

She giggled into my neck and pulled me back to her.

"The Wall came down awhile back," she said.

"Whew. I'm just sayin', y'know?"

Her giggling intensified. "You shit."

* * * * *

I made us a cheese omelette and toast for dinner, and we ate in near silence. But it was a comfortable silence broken only when the phone rang.

Mom, I thought. I'd missed the call that morning.

"Hello?"

"Tyler," Dad said, his voice choking.

"What's wrong, Dad?"

"Your mother," he said. "She's . . . she had a . . . she's in the hospital. It's– "

"You called Benny?"

He tried to choke out a no.

"I'll call him," I said. "Then I'll get there as fast as I can."

"Hurry," he said. "Please."

"I promise," I said, but he'd hung up.

"What's wrong?" Susan asked as I turned to face her.

"My mom," I said. "I don't know."

I was choking up. And scared.

She was quick and confident in the crisis.

"Benny your brother?"

I nodded.

"Call him," she instructed, pulling a cell phone from her purse and walking toward the bedroom. "I'll book you a flight and get you packed."

"Chicago," I said. She turned and looked at me quizzically, and I repeated it. "Fly me into Chicago. It's only an hour away."

She nodded, punching numbers into her cell phone before wheeling and turning back to the bedroom.

* * * * *

"Your book," Susan said as she drove me to the airport.

"What?" I replied, turning back to her.

"Your book," she repeated. "Where is it?"

I only stared, not understanding.

Her eyes were on the road, her face concentrating on the traffic, but I could see her features soften.

"I promised to get your book to an agent," she said. "I'd like to keep my end of the bargain."

"You're kidding, right?" I said. "My mom's . . . well, it's real bad. Maybe worse than bad. And you're worried about our bargain?"

"No," she said. "I'm not really worried about it. And I know you sure have more important things. But while I'm down here, I want to do something for you, Tyler. Something to maybe, I don't know, maybe take some of the load off of you. To maybe give you something to keep your mind off things." She was crying now. "And I don't know what else I can do. I just want to– "

"There are some copies in my den," I said, fishing into my pockets for my apartment keys. I started pulling the front door key off the ring while I continued. "They're in a box on the floor next to the computer. It's called 'Long Gone.'"

She nodded, wiping the tears from her face and trying to smile.

"Okay," she said. "I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks."

"And give me your cell phone," she said.

"Why?"

"I'll program my number into it."

"Why don't you just give me your number and I'll do the programming," I said. "You can concentrate on the road."

She gave me her number, and I dutifully typed it into my contacts list.

"You want my number, too?" I said.

She nodded. A tight, brisk nod, like she was afraid to ask for my number.

She handed me her Blackberry, and I added myself to her contacts.

Ten minutes later, Susan saw me off at the post-911 security lines.

"I hope it all works out," she said, hugging me tightly.

"Me, too," I choked, hugging her back just as fiercely. "Some date, huh?"

"You sure know how to show a girl a good time," she said, tears welling into her eyes.

I dabbed her eyes with my thumb.

"Thanks for everything," I said. "You were a lifesaver tonight."

"And you were a lifesaver, too. Maybe my whole life."

I kissed her, got in line, and didn't look back. I didn't trust myself to look back.



What You Wish For Pt. 02



Introduction

All right, here it is, the second part. Second of six, if I didn't already mention it.

As usual, it is my fervent hope that you will all read this and comment on it. Comments really are helpful, and I do listen to them. Remember, this story is my reaction to the comment that I don't really cover the female characters very well.

I suppose, now that I've got you snagged at least into reading part two, that I should tell you there isn't a ton of sex in this story. There's a scene in this chapter--and a pretty good, if odd, one that was a lot of fun to write. Still, this is a story about interactions.

And that's what I'm telling you all now, so be forewarned: If you've read my past Loving Wives submissions--at least the past two, Goin' Back Home Again and The Bar and Grill--you know that these are not the typical stories you find in this genre. They do have, at their center, a cheating wife. I prefer to explore the implications and outcomes of the cheating for all parties involved. That's what's going to happen here. I'm not telling you whether there will be revenge or (God forbid!) reconciliation. You'll have to read it all to find out. Just be forewarned as you read it.

Again, please take your time to comment, and make your comments as detailed as you feel comfortable with. Yes, I like the comments that tell me the story is great. I really, really like the comments, though, that tell me what is either good or bad about it. What is and isn't working. In other words, the comments that will help me as a writer.

Thanks again!

*

It was almost two in the morning by the time I drove my rental into Grant City. Since Dad wasn't answering at home, I drove straight to the hospital.

Dad, Benny, and Benny's wife Maureen were all in the waiting room.

They all rose upon seeing me, and we all hugged in turn.

"It's a stroke," Benny said as we hugged.

"How bad?"

"Don't know yet," Dad said. "They're running a bunch of tests now. We won't know for awhile yet."

I nodded, then turned to Benny and Maureen. "Where are the kids?"

"My sister has 'em," Maureen said. "She'll keep 'em until we know what's happening."

And that was it. I couldn't think of anything else to say and neither could anyone else. We were all just plain scared, and no one wanted to give voice to their fears.

* * * * *

At a little past four, a doctor strode into the waiting room. He was youngish, maybe a few years older than me at most, and he looked dog tired.

"How is she?" Dad said, getting to his feet with a burst of energy.

The doctor's look was grim. "It was a stroke," he said. "A serious one."

"What's that mean?" Benny said. "Is she gonna be all right?"

The doctor looked at all of us. He sighed. "She'll live. But it's going to be a long, hard road."

"I don't care," Dad said.

The doctor looked at him. "She's going to have some serious physical impairments. Paralysis on the right side of her body. And speech. She'll need a lot of therapy, both speech and physical."

"But that'll fix it, right?" Dad said, the fear in his eyes.

The doctor shook his head. "Not totally. I'm afraid a lot of it's going to be permanent."

Dad looked like a balloon that had been pricked with a pin. He just slowly sagged back into the chair.

"Don't get me wrong," the doctor rushed in. "She's still sharp as a tack. And she'll regain her speech with time, though it won't be as fast as it used to be. And she'll be able to walk again. It'll just be with a limp."

Dad looked up at him, his eyes pleading.

Benny put his hand on Dad's knee. "She'll get better, Dad."

I put my hand on his shoulder. "She's a fighter."

Dad tried to laugh through is pain and fear. "She is that," he agreed. "She'll get better. You just watch."

The doctor's face said he doubted that, but he had the sense and compassion to just nod.

* * * * *

Two days later, Benny, Maureen, and I were sitting around the dining room table, drinking our morning coffee. Dad was already at the hospital, making the arrangements for Mom to go to a care facility for the initial--and we were told very intense--physical therapy.

I caught Benny and Maureen shooting glances at me and then at each other, Maureen raising her eyebrows and nodding her head toward me.

"What?" I said, looking at her. "Just say it."

Benny cleared his throat. "Uh . . . well . . . Ty-- "

"Someone's gonna have to stick around here for awhile," Maureen said, flustered with Benny's attempt to state the obvious that had been hanging over our heads for the past two days.

I nodded. "I know."

"Dad can't really take care of himself," Benny added.

"Can't cook for shit," I agreed.

"And probably has no clue how to run a washer or dryer, either," Maureen added.

"And he's gonna be real busy going to and from the therapy center and all," Benny piled on.

"Guys," I said, "you don't have to convince me. I know."

"Well," Benny started, then stopped, unsure how to continue.

"I've got a lot of time off coming," I said.

The relief was evident in his face.

"Don't worry," I continued. "I'll stick around for awhile."

"You always were a lot better in the workshop," Maureen said.

"The workshop?" I said.

"Yeah," Benny explained. "Someone's gonna have to keep the orders filled, right? It's not like Dad can just drop everything. At least, I don't think they've got that much saved up."

I hadn't really thought about this part of it. Made sense, though. Someone had to make the cabinets and the occasional custom tables and chairs, dressers and bookcases. And they were right. Benny would lose fingers within a week. A complete klutz.

"You're right," I said.

* * * * *

When Dad came home that night, we went out back to the pole barn that served as his workshop--and the rest of the cabinetmaking and woodworking business, for that matter.

"You'll need to keep orders filled," I explained on the way out.

"Yeah," he sighed, not really caring.

"So why don't you show me what's in the hopper and I'll start first thing tomorrow?"

He stopped, turned, and fixed me with a stare. I had his attention, that's for sure.

"You even remember how to do any of this? How to work with your hands?"

"It'll come back," I promised.

He moved his mouth, grinding his teeth as he thought it over.

"I'll stay home tomorrow," he said. "Go over everything and keep an eye on you. See if you've still got it."

I smiled. "Fair enough."

"Benny and Mo can be with your mom."

"She'll like that. Get you out of her hair for awhile."

He nodded.

And we proceeded to the workshop and went over the orders that needed to be filled, the plans that needed to be completed, the billing that needed doing, and all the other things that go into running your own little business.

After more than six years dealing with far larger figures, the business end of things didn't really intimidate me much.

Looking at some of the pieces sitting around in various stages of completion, though, left me in awe. The tight joinery and sculpted flow of the furniture started me sweating, and the hand cut dovetails on the drawers and casework scared the shit out of me.

I hadn't done a hand-cut dovetail joint in more than seven years, but I remembered how long it took me to originally master the art.

Maybe we could just hire someone? I thought.

* * * * *

"Sam," I said into the phone, "I'm gonna need some serious time off."

"What?"

He was apoplectic, as I knew he would be. Sam Runyon was the Senior Vice President/Bonds at McDaniels Smyth, and the thought of time off was contrary to the fiber of his very being.

"It's my mother," I explained. "She's had a stroke."

"She okay?" he said, still gruff.

"No, Sam, she's not okay. She's pretty fucked up."

"She's not going to die or anything, is she?"

"No, she's not going to die," I said.

"Then what's the problem?"

"My dad," I explained. "He needs someone around for awhile until she's out of inpatient therapy."

"Like how long?"

"Like a month."

"A month," he wailed, half sorrow, half unbelieving.

"Maybe more," I said.

"More than a month," he bemoaned.

"It's not like-- "

"I don't know, Collins. Really. You're asking a lot here."

That pissed me off. I'd given my everything to these pricks, and now they're pissed off I needed to take care of my folks? You're fucking kidding me, right?"

"Sorry," I said, biting my tongue. "I can't really get out of this."

"I'm gonna have to run it by the higher ups," he said. "It's not that simple. I mean, you need a week, sure. You got it. Two weeks? Yeah, we should be able to cover. But a month? I mean-- "

"I'm not asking you, Sam," I said, my voice getting firm as I struggled to keep from exploding. "I'm telling you, okay?"

He paused, undoubtedly surprised that anyone would so blatantly challenge his authority.

"Do you know what you're saying?" he said. "That maybe you're giving up your current position? You want that?"

"I don't really have a choice," I said. "This is my parents we're talking about here, not some goddamned sick dog or something."

"And what are we supposed to do while you're gone? Who's supposed to cover for you?"

"That's not my problem."

"It sure as goddamned hell is your problem, Collins. This is your department. You answer for it."

"So I should what?" I exploded. "Just say, 'Hey, sorry Mom and Dad. Can't help out here. Hope you don't lose everything and all. Be sure to write at Christmas. Oh, and Mom? You get well, Sweetie.' Huh? Is that what you're sayin' I should do here?"

"I don't really give a shit what you do, Collins," he snapped, his voice getting harder. "I'm just sayin' it's not my problem. Not McDaniels Smyth's problem. Got it?"

"Loud and fucking clear, Sam," I said before I'd even thought about it. "And bonds isn't my problem right now, either."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded.

I thought for a moment before answering. These bastards had already gone a long way toward destroying my marriage--granted with plenty of help from Kristin and me. And they'd demanded hours that slaves would revolt over in pursuit of the almighty dollar. Now they wanted me to just abandon the only family I had left?

"That means two things, Sam," I said. "First, it means I resign. Effective immediately."

I heard him suck in his breath, then he got control of himself.

"You said two things," he said slowly.

"The second thing is my severance package," I said. "I want two fifty."

"You're fucking nuts," he exploded into the phone. "You're quitting on us. We're not firing you. And you're doing it with no notice. And we should pay you for this?"

"Read my employment contract, Sam," I said. "We're nine months into the fiscal year. And I've accrued sixty days in vacation that you can't really deny me. So you're going to pay me for the vacation time I've earned, and you're going to pay me a quarter mil on top. As severance pay."

"And if we refuse?" he said, knowing better than to bluster his way into a corner without the full threat before him.

"Two things. First, I'll just take my sixty days of vacation, and there ain't shit you can do about it. Then I'll come back for the last thirty days and resign the second the fiscal year is up. In which case you'll still owe me my bonus. Second, I'll call Carl Stepford over at Midlands Financial. I'll tell him all about leaving you guys and why and I'll snag them for someone else."

"You wouldn't dare," he gasped, genuinely amazed at my complete prickishness.

"The fuck I wouldn't," I said. "You owe me at least one ninety for the bonus, and you'll be making money off Midlands long after I'm gone."

"Let me get back to you," he said.

Twenty minutes later, my cell rang.

"That didn't take too long, Sam," I said.

"It's not Sam," a measured baritone voice said into a speakerphone on the other end. "It's Bertram MacReynolds."

"Oh, Mr. MacReynolds," I said, surprised the head of McDaniels Smyth himself was calling.

"There seems to have been an unfortunate misunderstanding, Tyler," he said.

"How so, sir?"

"I think Mr. Runyon may have jumped the gun a bit, Tyler. Maybe been a bit too harsh."

I smiled, deciding to say nothing in response.

"Are you still there?"

"Still here, sir."

"What I'm saying, Tyler, is that you have sixty days of vacation coming. Sixty days you've broken your back to earn. And if you need to take that time to be with your family, then we're all for it. Your job will be waiting when you get back, okay?"

"I don't know, Mr. MacReynolds," I said, knowing how I was going to play this. "I mean, he seemed awfully sure about the firm's position."

"I speak for this firm, Mr. Collins," MacReynolds thundered. There was a pause, and when he spoke next his voice was more gentle. "We're really sorry to hear about your mother, son. And we don't turn our back--I don't turn my back--on our valuable employees in their times of need. So if you need to take the time, then please take it."

"Sorry, sir," I said. "I'm not coming back."

I could picture poor Sam Runyon sitting across from MacReynolds at this very moment, shrinking from the glare that was undoubtedly scorching his skin.

"But here's what I'm willing to do, sir," I continued. "You approve the severance package I asked for, and I'll make sure you keep Midlands through the transition."

Let's face it, folks, Bertram MacReynolds didn't give two shits about me or my Mom. He wanted to keep Midlands.

"All right, Tyler," he said warily, "we're listening."

"You appoint my replacement. Then you send him--or her--and Sam up to get me in Chicago. I'll go with them to Midlands and introduce everyone all around. I'll stick to the sob story of why I'm leaving despite your best efforts to help me out. And I'll ease the transition. I'll make sure they think you guys are still golden."

There was some hissed whispering on the other end, then MacReynolds spoke again.

"I'm not so sure Mr. Runyon is the right person to accompany you," he said. "We're afraid there'll be-- "

I knew what he was going to say, and I decided to let Runyon off the hook. He'd always been good to me. Even if he had worked me half to death for six years. He'd kept up his end of the bargain, but he was a company man. I knew how he'd react to my requested time off. I just didn't know it would kick me in the ass to move on with my life for good.

"Mr. MacReynolds," I interrupted, "Sam Runyon is the best damned boss a man could have. I'm not mad at him, and I bear him no ill will. He's great at his job, and our earlier . . . er . . . disagreement has nothing to do with why I'm leaving."

MacReynolds cleared his throat. "Oh . . . well . . . . Tyler."

"Sir?"

"You sure you won't be changing your mind about this?"

"I'm sure, sir."

There was some more hushed whispering on the other end.

"We'll get the vacation pay direct deposited into your account by close of business today," he said. "And we'll e-mail you a severance agreement to review. If it meets with your approval, we'll pay you the two fifty at the end of the trip to Midlands, okay?"

"Half now, half at the end," I said. "And a guarantee that the trip is scheduled within forty-five days."

"Smart boy," he chortled. "And done. We've got a deal?"

"It's a deal, sir," I said.

"And Tyler?"

"Sir?"

"We really are sorry. Both about your mother and to see you go."

"Thank you, sir."

Two weeks later, I spent a Thursday and half a Friday in Minneapolis securing the Midlands account for my former employers.

By the following Monday, the balance of my severance package was in my bank account.

* * * * *

So what the hell was I going to do? Not a clue.

That little phone call insured I wouldn't have to worry about money any time soon, though. With my savings, stock options, and--even after taxes--the severance pay and vacation pay, I had a tidy little nest egg of almost seven hundred grand. Maybe not enough for the high life in West Palm Beach, Florida, but more than enough in Grant City, Illinois.

In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. And things were a whole lot cheaper in Grant City than in West Palm.

So I had plenty of time to figure out what to do with my life. And how to get my stuff from West Palm to Grant City.

* * * * *

"Susan?" I said, calling the only person I really knew in Florida. It helped, too, that she had the key to my apartment.

"How's your mother?" she asked.

"Better," I said. "A stroke. Pretty bad one, too. But she's getting better now, thanks for asking."

I could her the exhalation that told me she actually gave a shit about the mother of a man she'd only spent two nights with.

"I was wondering if you could do me a favor?"

"The book?" she said.

I paused, having forgotten all about it. "No. It's a little more important than-- "

"I don't think anything's more important than getting it published," she said, her voice getting excited. "Jesus, Tyler, it's fucking brilliant."

"You read it?"

"Of course I read it," Susan said. "You think I'm gonna just pawn it off without seeing if it was any good?"

I chortled, pleased with myself. "And you liked it?"

"Loved it," she said. "And I've already sent it along to my friend. She should be getting it today or tomorrow."

"Well . . . uh . . . thanks," I said. Both the praise and her keeping the promise I'd totally forgotten about were more than I'd expected. If I'd even remembered about the book, that is.

"So," she said, "you called."

"Yeah. Listen, I'm gonna be moving up here for awhile."

Susan was silent. Disappointed? I couldn't tell.

"Mom's in a rehab center," I said after a moment. "Dad's got his own business, and he needs help running it right now."

"What about your brother? Bobby or whatever his name is."

"Benny," I corrected. "He's married. Kids. Lives four hours away by car."

She was silent again.

"And I need some help getting my stuff up here," I continued. "You have my key and all. I was just thinking."

"Sure, Tyler," she said, her voice soft. "You know that. What do I need to do?"

"Let me make a few calls," I replied. "See who I can hire. Once I get someone lined up, I'll give you a call. You can probably just drop the key off with 'em or something."

"Sure," she said, trying to project a chipper mood. "No prob. Anything."

"What's wrong?" I said.

"Nothing."

"Come on, I can tell. You . . . I don't know . . . I mean . . . ."

"Yeah," she sighed.

Just that. Yeah. Said it all. She was interested in me. Cared for me. Maybe wanted to make a go of trying to date me.

"Sorry," I said. What else could I say?

"Don't be." She tried laughing, but failed. "Shit happens, right?"

"Guess so," I agreed.

"And it was only a few days, right?"

"Maybe the first time," I said, sadness overwhelming me. "Not the second time, though."

"So there could've been more?"

"I told you. You're special. Smart, nice, beautiful."

"With a career."

"And a thousand miles away," I added.

"So you've quit?" she asked. "Your job?"

"Uh huh."

The silence lingered. Ten seconds. Twenty.

"Get me the number," she said. "Whoever you hire. I'll make sure it all gets back to you, okay?"

"Thanks, Susan."

"And be looking for a call from an agent, okay? Her name's Natalie."

"I will."

"And Tyler?" she said. I could hear her sniffling, like she was about to cry if she wasn't already.

"Yeah, babe."

"You take care of yourself, okay?"

"You, too."

She hung up.

CHAPTER SIX

Two weeks later, mid-June, my car, furniture, and all personal belongings were safely delivered from Florida. All but the car, my clothes, and my computer were safely put into a storage garage until I could find a place of my own, which wouldn't happen until after Mom came home from rehab.




What You Wish For Pt. 02



A quick online search netted me the address of Susan's employer--I'd never gotten her home address--and I sent her a set of diamond earrings for all of her help. She called to protest, but I wouldn't hear of it. She'd been there when I needed her, which was far more than I was entitled to expect.

I was working twelve hours a day in the workshop, sometimes with Dad, but usually alone. My woodworking skills had returned--mostly. With Dad's occasional help, I was keeping up with the orders and putting out high quality furniture and cabinets. Dad only had to fix a few glaring blunders, but what did he expect? If nothing else, he was getting far better quality than he was paying me for, which was zero.

It was mid-morning, and I decided to take a break from some dovetails on a set of drawers for a Queen Ann lowboy I was making out of quilted maple. Sipping coffee, I pulled out my cell phone and saw a voice mail message.

"Mr. Collins," a husky woman's voice said, "this is Natalie Jagodzinski. A . . . uh . . . a mutual friend of ours has passed along something you wrote. I've read it, and I'd like to meet with you to discuss some things. Please give me a call at your earliest opportunity."

She gave a number, so I called her back.

"South Beach Talent," a chirpy voice answered.

"I'm returning Ms. Jagodzinski's call," I said.

"May I tell her who's calling?"

"Tyler Collins."

"One moment."

Thirty seconds later, the husky voice came back on the line.

"Tyler," she said, her voice loud and cheery.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Natalie," she said. "Call me Natalie."

"Okay," I replied. "Natalie. You called? Wanted to meet with me?"

"Like yesterday."

"So you've read Long Gone?"

"Read it and loved it," she gushed. "It was wonderful."

She stretched out the n in wonderful. It came across as 'wonnnnn-derful.'

"Thanks. So you think . . . maybe someone . . . . You think I can get it published?"

She laughed. A phlegmy, coughing laugh. A laugh coated in cigarettes and scotch.

"No, darling," she said. "You can't get it published. But I can."

I smiled. "Okay. Then what do we do?"

"Well, the first thing we do is sign you up. To our agency."

"And how do we do that?"

"You have a fax? Internet connection?"

"Both," I said.

"Give me your e-mail. I'll send along the standard agent's agreement. You look at it, make sure it's kosher, then sign it and overnight it back to me. Okay?"

I thought about it. My research had told me what agents charged, but I wasn't a lawyer. I wouldn't know what half the damned thing said.

"Can you copy Susan on it?" I asked. "On the e-mail?"

"Susan Karapova? Of course, darling," she said. "Good idea. She gonna be representing you from now on?"

"Don't know. I'll have to ask her."

"Consider it done," she said.

At least she didn't seem set on screwing me. If she was, she'd have probably tried to talk me out of the whole lawyer thing, but her compliance had been immediate and perfunctory.

"You met with any other agents yet?" she continued.

"No."

"Good," she gushed, the relief evident in her enthusiasm. "Then, if you don't mind, I'll start shopping this to some publishers."

"Before we're signed up together?" I said.

"You gonna screw me, Tyler?" she asked.

"No."

"Then I'm not gonna screw you, okay? And we need to get moving on this. We can have it out by Christmas, which is perfect."

"So you think it's good?" I asked again.

"No, Tyler. I think it's absolutely, one hundred percent brilliant. I think it'll be a bestseller. Maybe even win a few awards. So the sooner it's published, the better."

I was amazed. I mean, sure, I'd killed myself writing it. But still, it was my first book.

"Of course," Natalie said, interrupting my thoughts, "you'll need an editor. There's some places that need some work and all. But that's common. The editor will know where and what to do."

"An editor?"

"The publishing house usually assigns one," she said. "They always do."

I hadn't thought about that. Apparently even brilliant first books still need work, the work of a more professional eye.

"Well," I said, "whatever you think is best, I guess. I mean, I'm new to this and all."

"Okay," she said, pausing before continuing.

"What?" I said. "What're you-- "

"Well," she said, drawing it out, "there's a freelance editor near you. In Chicago. We could hire her, then get reimbursed."

"That's kosher?"

"There's a chance they won't agree to reimburse, in which case you'd have to pay it from your share of royalties. Maybe as much as ten for fifteen grand."

"But it'll get the book out sooner, right?"

"In time for Christmas," she said.

"Then it'll be worth it, right?"

"Probably."

"Then do it."

"I'll get right on it," she sighed. "Okay, you get that e-mail opened, printed. Go over it with Susan or whoever you hire. Sign it and get it back to me. I'll get to work getting this published, okay?"

"Okay," I said, then thought again about the message. "Do we need to meet, though?"

But she'd already hung up. I guess meeting with me wasn't in the cards.

Which was fine.

I didn't want to go back to Florida just yet.

* * * * *

Early the next afternoon, Susan phoned. The proposed agent agreement was fine, she said.

So I signed it.

I somehow felt more like a real writer. C'mon, I had an agent, right?

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Fourth of July that year fell on a Friday. Therefore, Thursday night became the busy bar night with old classmates and friends and family all flying in from out of town to see their long lost loved ones.

And I was tired of writing nights, even though the new outline was cruising along well and almost done. Though it had originally come faster than the original story, I was now making it more complex, adding additional layers to the story.

So, I figured, what the hell. Dad was visiting Mom, and he'd grab a bite to eat on his way home. It was almost seven-thirty, and I was in the mood for some companionship. A few beers at the Bar and Grill sounded perfect. So by eight, I was showered, shaved, dressed in clean shorts and golf shirt, and pulling into the overflowing parking lot of the Bar and Grill.

There are three types of people in Grant City. Those that go to the Bar and Grill; those that go to The Hitching Rail; and those that go to the other bars. Combine all the other bars, though, and they don't do nearly the business as either the Bar and Grill or The Hitching Rail. That's mostly because of the food at the two hot spots, though. The Bar and Grill definitely has better food. Hell, everyone knows that and pretty much agrees on that. Still, sometimes you're just in the mood for a really good, greasy burger with a pile of skinny, salty fries, and that's when The Hitching Rail comes in. Also, The Hitching Rail has live bands a couple of times a month, and you can still see some of the fellas from General Beauregard dropping by when they're not touring or in the studio. So, like I said, they both have their adherents.

I'm a Bar and Grill guy. I like the food because it's lighter and--okay--a bit fancier. Definitely not your normal pub grub. Mostly, though, I prefer the ambience. It's got a juke box, to be sure, but it's rarely blaring too loudly and the tables are spaced enough to give you some room. I prefer a quieter joint where the bartender leaves me alone if I want to be left alone.

The place was packed to the rafters tonight, though. Just as I knew would happen, there were a ton of classmates from different years standing around tables, sharing pitchers of beer, and catching up on their families and careers or just talking old times. The dining room was full, too, and I was quick to put my name in for a table.

"Need some company for dinner?" a voice behind me said.

"Allie," I said without turning around.

"The same," she said, leaning over my shoulder and pecking my earlobe with her soft lips.

I turned and took her in.

Allisyn Palmer, Kristin's cousin. The prettiest of the Palmer girls, and there were a lot of pretty ones. Everyone in Grant City had been saying for years that old Grandpa Palmer should've been put out to stud because all the female progeny in his line were such incredibly beautiful specimens of the female form.

"You look great," I said, staring at her smiling face and twinkling hazel eyes. 

"You, too, handsome," she said, taking a sip from her bottle of Corona, but keeping her eyes on me the whole time.

"Still single?"

"Uh huh," she said. "And fishin' for a dinner date."

I smiled. "There'd be a damned line in here a mile long if that were the case."

"I'm giving you first shot," she said, her eyebrow raising at the invitation.

I kept smiling, but my mind started churning a mile a minute. Back a couple of months and I'm facing my ex-wife's cousin trying to snag me. Don't get me wrong, she was drop dead gorgeous, but this just didn't seem like a really good idea.

"You're single," she said, pushing her attack. "She left you, not the other way around. So that means you're available and free to go out with anyone you want."

"Yeah, but your father. Her father."

She laughed, flashing straight, impossibly bright teeth as she did so. And she had Kristin's dimples when she smiled, I noticed.

And Kristin's . . . look. The Palmer girl look. A look of sexual invitation that was hard to resist.

"I'm not asking you to a family reunion, Tyler," she said, holding her beer out to me.

I took a gulp, closing my eyes and enjoying the ice cold, lime-tinged beer as it chased down my throat. This wasn't a really good idea.

"Sure," I said. "I'd love to have dinner with you, Allie."

We chatted easily, both while waiting for our table, then over dinner.

It was easy. After all, we'd known each other most of our lives. We'd been at the same Christmas parties, Thanksgiving dinners, picnics, family reunions, and cookouts for nearly a decade. She was only a year behind me in school, and we'd pretty much run around with the same crowd. So we had plenty to talk about.

Thank God she waited until after dinner--while we shared a bowl of cherries jubilee over vanilla ice cream--to bring up the ex.

"She's miserable, you know."

"Who?" I said.

"Kristin."

I didn't say anything.

"They're stuck in this crappy little two-bedroom condo over on Adams," she continued. "His from before they got married. It's small and crappy and she's home alone with the baby all day and nothing to do. Not enough money and all."

"Her problem," I said. "She made her bed."

"She said you were ignoring her," Allisyn prodded. "You were gone all the time. On business. Working forever. And she was always home alone with no friends and nothing to do."

"Then she should've gotten off her ass and gotten a job," I said, trying to restrain my anger.

"You're right," Allisyn agreed. Then she sucked on a cherry that was on the tip of her spoon, her eyes on me the whole time.

"I'd rather not talk about her," I said, mesmerized by her pouty lips sucking on that poor, innocent little cherry. Okay, that lucky goddamned cherry.

"Just thought you'd wanna know," she said, sucking the cherry into her mouth and chewing on it. "She screwed the pooch, and she damned well knows it."

"Good."

"So," she said, scooping another cherry onto her spoon and looking at it before looking at me, "now that you're back and all. Now that you don't have that high pressure job a thousand miles away."

"Yeah?" I said, urging her to finish the thought or start sucking on the cherry. Either would do.

She flicked the tip of her tongue over and around the cherry, her eyes telling me she was enjoying my rapt attention.

"Well," she said, "you thinking of maybe trying to win her back?"

"You're kidding, right?"

She raised her right eyebrow in a mixture of surprise and joy.

"Not a chance in hell," I said. "She's married now. With his kid. So like I said: She made her bed."

"So if she was married, but it was your kid?"

I stared at her. "What's the difference? It's not. And she already found her knight in shining armor. They can have each other."

She started sucking on the cherry again, and I just as quickly forgot the conversation.

With a quick flick of the tongue, she rolled the cherry into her mouth and chewed on it. Slowly.

"I've got an idea," she said.

"I'm all ears."

"What say we mosey on up to the bar. Maybe have a few more drinks."

"Sounds great," I said, wondering how much the bartender would charge me for a dish of maraschino cherries. Now I wanted to know if she could tie the stem with her tongue.

"Then," she said, leaning in closer, "we can go back to my place for awhile."

Here it was. The moment of decision. The second where I can either do the smart thing or I can accept her invitation.

"Sounds like a plan," I whispered.

"You sure?" she said. "Because you don't sound so sure, Tyler."

I smiled. "Positive."

What can I say? I'm a man, right? Flesh and blood.

* * * * *

Allie had a small home on Polk Street, over on the north side of town. She taught English at Grant City High, so she didn't make a ton of money. Then again, she'd never been married and had no children, so she only had herself and her home to spend her money on.

The home was neat, tastefully decorated, and loaded with pictures of the many generations and branches of the Palmer clan. Just looking at the pictures of all those beautiful female cousins would get a dead man hard.

What got me hard, though, was Allie's actions the moment we walked in the door.

She led the way, me following close behind until I ran into her in the dark living room.

"I've wanted this for a long time," she said, snaking her arms around my neck and pulling me in for a kiss.

It was a long, soulful kiss. The kind that say we've got all night, so let's take our time. You know the type: Lips brushing then pressing, the tip of a tongue tracing around the lips then slowly seeking out another tongue, heads tilting back and forth as the passion heats up. A barnburner kiss, the kind that turns a half hard pecker into a full-blown diamond cutter.

We kissed for ages. It could've been ten minutes, could've been ten hours. I was lost in her passion and my need. She looked so much like Kristin, but I kept that out of my mind. This was Allisyn, sweet little Allisyn, and she'd wanted me forever. Said so herself. That seemed good enough, and it was far different from the others I'd spent anonymous evenings with over the past year or more. All except Susan, but I banished her from my mind and concentrated on the excitement of the now.

Allie's hands moved down my back, her fingertips firm and feeling, and her hips melded with mine. Pressing, grinding slowly.

Then one of her hands was on my ass, and I felt the other take my wrist and guide my hand from her shoulder to her breast. Her breasts were bigger than Kristin's, more firm, and I could feel her taut nipple through the thin fabric of her cotton shirt. When I squeezed, she moaned into my mouth and her hips picked up the pace against my own.

"So long," she whispered.

I kissed down to the side of her neck, my hand squeezing her entire breast while the other went to her ass and squeezed while pushing her even harder to my cock.

"I want you," she mumbled as I licked and gently sucked on the hollow near her clavicle.

"How?" I asked, unsure as I always was the first time.

"However you want," she whispered into my ear, opening up worlds of possibilities.

"I want you to tell me what you want," I managed to say as my mouth moved to her cleavage while my hand unbuttoned the top three buttons of her blouse.

"Just do what you want," she said. "Anything."

Allie's breath was coming in gasps now as I sucked hard on the insides of her breasts, kissing then sucking.

"The bedroom," I mumbled into her breasts. "Let's go there."

Her moan told me she didn't want me to stop, but she needed to get this to the next level quickly.

Then she pushed back and grabbed my hand, tugging me down the hallway to the door at the end. I followed her in as she flicked on the light.

Sweeping my eyes around the room, a broad smile came over my face.

"Somebody's a naughty little girl," I said, looking from her face to the nightstand.

She turned with my eyes, saw the toys and the small bottle of lube, and blushed. When she turned back to me, she fought to meet my eyes.

"You said anything, right?"

She nodded, trying to fight through her embarrassment.

"Good," I said, pulling her close and kissing her again.

While we kissed, I walked her toward the bed until her legs bumped the mattress. She froze, but I gently led her down to the mattress.

"This headboard seems perfect for what I have in mind," I said, breaking the kiss and looking around the room.

Spying what I needed, I broke away and walked to the chair in the corner.

"You're going to . . . ."

I turned around and saw excitement mingled with trepidation.

"You said anything," I challenged.

She fell silent under my raised eyebrow and the bathrobe sash in my hand.

Seeing her acquiesce, I smiled and walked back to the bed. I gently pushed Allie back and raised her arms above her head. Then I tied her hands together with the sash and tied the other end to the headboard.

"I've never-- " she started.

"You'll like it," I said, leaning in and kissing her. "I promise."

She nodded, licking her lips and excitement flashing in her eyes.

I leaned in and unbuttoned her shirt, kissing her belly and down to the top of her shorts as I did so. While doing that, I flicked open her front-clasped bra, then pushed my hand underneath and brushed my hands over her wondrous breasts, squeezing her nipples and occasionally kneading her full breasts.

"Oh my God," she moaned after four or five minutes of my ministrations. "Tyler, I'm so hot right now."

"Just wait," I said, kissing her deeply while my hands moved down and unbuttoned and unzipped her shorts.

"Please," she said.

"Please what?"

"Touch me there."

"We'll see," I said, sucking her nipples into my mouth and gently nibbling.

Her arms went taut against the sash tying her to the headboard, and her hips rose and tried to push against my hand over her mound.

"Somebody's a bit anxious," I teased.

"Please," she said, her eyes hungry and excited.

"But what about me?" I said.

"Anything," she said. "Just please touch me there."

I stood and quickly shed my clothing, standing next to the bed and watching her as I did so. Once I was naked, her eyes never left my cock.

"You've got to do something for me first," I said, getting on the bed and straddling her breasts, the tip of my pecker inches from her lips. "Lick it, Allie."

Her eyes bore into mine as she leaned her head forward and darted her tongue between her lips, flicking against the tip of my cock. Then, her eyes staying on mine the whole way, she started a long, slow, tantalizing journey around the head then down the sides before coming back up along the bottom.

I bit my lip with the tingling sensations running through my body, turned on by the look in her eyes as she slowly parted her lips and engulfed the head and started sucking. Not bobbing or moving her lips. Just a powerful sucking that was soon joined by a slow twisting of her head in a circle around the head of my cock.

Keeping my eyes on her, I reached my hand behind me and traced my fingertips down to her panties, finding the juncture of her legs. When I brushed over the top of her slit, I watched her eyes close and felt a slow moan around my shaft. Her hips rose to join my fingers, trying to force more pressure. Then her eyes opened, and they were begging for more.

I smiled, and backed away from her mouth before I exploded too soon.




What You Wish For Pt. 02



"Okay," I said, "time to play."

"What're you going to do?" she said, watching me with big eyes as I picked up the vibrator and the tube of lube.

"You'll like it," I promised, squirting some lube over the vibrator before coating it thoroughly with the palm of my hands.

I leaned in and kissed her, and she returned the kiss a thousandfold.

"Someone's getting anxious," I teased.

She said nothing, but her anxious face and pleading eyes spoke volumes.

Anticipation. That's the key word, fellas. Don't just go with the wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am. Let it build. Create sexual tension and suspense. Chicks dig it. Trust me.

I walked to the foot of the bed and stared up at her exposed, helpless body. It took my breath away.

I leaned over and slowly tugged her panties down her long, slim legs. They were wet, and I could smell her arousal.

"So what do you want?" I said, turning the base of the vibrator until I felt the low hum.

I traced the vibrator up the insides of both legs, stopping every time a mere millimeters from her soaking sex. Her efforts to push down and create the needed contact were frustrated by the sash binding her to the headboard.

"Please," she finally pleaded.

"Say it," I said. "What do you want?"

"I want you to touch me there," she said, her eyes now afire and her nostrils flaring with her arousal. "Kiss me there."

"A kiss?" I said. I leaned in close, shimmying between her legs until I was face to face with her perfectly trimmed pussy.

"Like this?" I said. I leaned in and gave her a peck right on top of her clitoral hood.

"You know," she said, frustrated at my teasing.

"Maybe like this?" I planted a trail of kisses on her inner thighs and over the swollen lips of her vulva.

Her hips started a slow grind, trying to force her closer to my face.

"Maybe like this?" I said. I spent a few minutes--maddening for her, judging by the reaction--flicking my tongue in little white hot darts over her pussy and clit.

Her breath was coming in a combination of low, throaty moans punctuated with sharp yelps and panting gasps. She was almost there.

Feeling her heat building to maximum level, I moved the vibrator in closer. Then, just as her frustration was about to lash out again, I touched the vibrator to her pussy, full on the lips, and gave a gentle nudge. At the same time, I centered my tongue on her clit, which was now hard as a little pebble.

"Oh yes," she gasped. "Oh yes, Tyler, just like that."

I continued my oral ministrations while nudging the vibrator in and out, going a bit deeper with each penetration. Allie was going wild, and her hips were gyrating crazily.

Just as I thought her excitement was too much for my face to keep contact with, though, I was roughly reminded that her legs weren't tied down. I found this out, of course, when her legs locked behind my head and kept me locked in place.

Okay, folks, we might as well just agree on this now: There are a whole lot worse ways to die than suffocating between the legs of a thrashing woman in the throes of orgasm. You at least go out knowing your last act was to provide orgasmic bliss, know what I mean?

As Allisyn's orgasm subsided, so too did her lock on my head. Gasping for air, my face covered in her juices, I slowly pulled the vibrator from her pussy.

She was laying back, her eyes closed, a huge smile plastered on her face.

"Fucking wow, Tyler Collins," she said.

"It was okay?"

"Okay?" She laughed, then lifted her head and looked at me. "It was more than okay. A lot more."

I smiled, kneeling between her legs. Then I hopped off the bed, reached into my pocket for a condom, and sheathed up.

"I'm safe," she said.

"So am I," I said. "Still. It's a good idea, don't you think?"

"Just so long as you get that thing in me, I don't care if it's wrapped in aluminum foil."

I rubbed the head slowly up and down the length of her slit.

"So how you want it?" I said.

"In me. Now."

"In you where?" I said, nudging down a little lower.

Her head looked up, startled at first. Then a slow smile crept over her face.

"You're looking for the whole kinky experience, aren't you?" she said.

I shrugged.

"You put it wherever you-- "

Her last word was cut short as I adjusted upward and pushed into her molten core in one slow, steady push. Allie's head went back, and a low moan escaped her lips as I bottomed out and held there, grinding my pelvis against her for added friction on her clit.

She was drenched and on fire, the moist heat noticeable even through the thin latex of the Trojan. And her hips were grinding against me, trying to increase the friction.

I reached down and grabbed her legs, lifting them up and putting them in front of my chest.

"This feel good?" I said, looking at her.

She nodded, biting her bottom lip and watching as I withdrew and pushed back more forcefully, soon getting up a steady rhythm.

"You're so . . . it's so . . . . You're filling me up," she moaned, turning her head to the side and clutching the sash binding her wrists.

I kept picking up the speed, knowing I wasn't going to last for long but wanting her to peak at least one more time before I did so.

She didn't keep me waiting long, either. After little more than a minute, her ass was up off the mattress and her body was taut as she gasped repeatedly with another orgasm.

As she came, I reached up and freed her hands. She frantically tried to help me through her sensations, and we managed to free her as her orgasm subsided.

Her hands immediately went to my ass and tried to pull me in deeper with every thrust, and she came again moments later.

That was the one that set me off, and I felt my backbone melting with my own, incredibly extended release.

Then we melted into each other, kissing and murmuring, stroking and hugging.

"What the hell was she thinking?" Allie whispered into my ear.

"Let's not talk about her right now," I said, enjoying the feeling of her heartbeat through her sweaty breasts.

"I've never," she started, then started over again. "No one's ever gotten me off like that, Tyler. No one."

"It's been awhile," I said. "I wanted it to last. To be good for you. Because I knew I wouldn't last very long."

She grabbed a handful of my hair, pulling my head back until we were looking at each other.

"So you're probably good for at least one more round?"

The look on her face was a mixture of pure glee and raw hunger.

"At least," I promised.

"Then let's see how long it takes me to wake this little soldier up again," she said, sliding down the bed and surrounding my soft soldier with her warm, moist, velvety mouth.

It didn't take her long.

* * * * *

I spent the night at her house, snuggling close in her bed and enjoying the feeling of a warm soft body to wake up with in the morning. And she was up before I was, which was a reversal of roles for me. I'm usually up with the sun, which comes up pretty early in July.

"Breakfast?" she said from the doorway.

I'd been awake when she'd slipped out of bed, but I just wanted to linger for a few minutes more.

"Eggs? Pancakes?"

I smiled as I opened my eyes and saw her standing--in a short t-shirt and nothing else--in the doorway.

"Oh no," she said. "Not that, Tyler."

"Come on," I pleaded. "I was there for you when-- "

"I'm gonna be walking funny as it is," she said. "You gave it quite a workout last night."

I pouted, to which she smiled. Then her smile turned into a grin. Then the right eyebrow went up and she lost the shirt as she strode toward the bed, picking up the bottle of lube as she neared.

"Okay," she said. "But we're gonna have to explore a different opening if that's okay with you."

I sat up straight and snatched the lube from her hands.

"Thought you'd never ask," I said.

I had to use lots of lube, first on my fingers and then on the vibrator, to loosen her up. After that, though, we were off to the races.

And a half hour later, I'd been introduced to the best way in the world to start your day.

* * * * *

Two days later, I was in the Piggly Wiggly, looking at watermelons, when I heard her voice behind me.

"Was screwing my cousin supposed to be some sick, twisted way of getting back at me?"

I didn't bother turning around.

"I'm talking to you," Kristin said.

"And I'm shopping here," I said, picking out a watermelon and placing it in the cart. "Good to see you. Have a nice day."

She had a little boy with her, not even a year old. He was cute and chubby with blonde hair and striking blue eyes. He looked at me in befuddlement, and I smiled at him in return. A smile broke across his face, and spittle dribbled at the corners of his mouth.

"Hey, handsome," I said softly. He flailed his arms in response, and the smile got bigger.

Kristin looked from me to her son, then back and forth between us a couple of times.

"Well?" she insisted.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I replied, waving goodbye to the toddler before turning to my car and pushing it toward the bakery section.

She followed me.

"She couldn't wait to tell me," Kristin said. "And Cilla, for that matter."

"And? That's my fault how?"

"Jesus, Tyler, she's my cousin," she said as I picked through the loaves of french bread, looking for one slightly stale. Tomatoes were coming in early this year, and I wanted a tomato, basil, and bread salad, drizzled with a fruity extra virgin olive oil, for dinner. It goes perfectly with beer can chicken on the grill.

"So?" I said, putting a loaf of two-day old bread in my cart before wheeling toward the meat aisle.

Still she followed, getting exasperated by my nonchalance.

"You stay away from her," Kristin said. "There's plenty of single women in Grant City for you. I think you can stay away from my family, for Chrissakes."

"No," I said, looking at the chickens.

"What?"

I picked a chicken, put it in my cart, and turned to face her.

"I said no."

She glared at me, but I kept my face impassive.

"You gave up the right to tell me who to date," I said evenly. "It's not your business, so stay out of it."

"But Allie made it my business," Kristin fumed. "So now it's out in the open."

I shrugged. "Bound to happen sooner or later, I guess."

"And you think this is cute? Rubbing it in my nose like this?"

"I'm not rubbing anything in your nose, Kristin," I said, placing my hands on the cart and wheeling toward the checkout lanes.

"Tyler," she said behind me.

But I ignored her.

I had chicken to grill and a tomato bread salad to make.

And Allie was coming over for dinner.



What You Wish For Pt. 03



Introduction

No sex here. Sorry. If anything, this chapter's a touch boring. Either way, it sets up everything that happens for the rest of the story. So please be patient if you're still with me in this long ride.

Thanks for reading, and please comment.


CHAPTER EIGHT

It was mid-July before I heard back from Natalie.

"Well that didn't take very long," she said from her air conditioned office in Florida.

"What didn't take very long?" I asked.

"Selling the book."

I was speechless. She'd found a publisher? In, what, not even a month?

"You still there?" she said, laughing.

"Who bought it?"

"The publishing rights or the movie rights?"

"Movie rights?" I said. Someone was going to make a movie out of my book?

She laughed, then choked on the cigarette she must've been inhaling during her laugh.

"Settle down, kid," she said. "No one's bought it yet."

I felt like a deflated balloon. Pop. That fast.

"We're in the middle of a bidding war," she continued.

"Which is?"

"When something's real good, when they think it's really gonna take off, the publishers all bid on the book. Then I go back to them. Kind of like an auction through five or six dozen phone calls."

"And this is good?"

"Oh yeah," she gasped, coughing again. "It's real good."

"And the movie thing?"

"Same deal. Four different producers are bidding on the option."

"Option?"

"Yeah. The book takes off, becomes a hit, they can exercise their option to buy the film rights."

"How'd they hear about the book?" I said. "Find out it was . . . well, worth a damn?"

"They have people at the publishing houses that keep 'em in the loop."

"So what're we talking here?" I said.

"Money?"

I was silent, afraid to say more.

"Well, kiddo," she said, her voice getting serious, "you'd better please tell me you're already working on something else."

"Almost done with the outline," I said.

"And it's a Lieutenant Randolph thriller?"

"Actually," I said, "it is. I liked him. He's a good character."

I could hear her sigh of relief through the phone.

"Thank you God," she said. "That's going to drive up the bidding."

"Why?"

"Because," Natalie replied, "everyone agreed he's a great character. Complex, sullen, but likeable. And smart as a whip and manly, too. That helps sell this to the female crowd."

"Oh," I said, not really understanding.

"And," she continued, "just like in the movies, publishers want to bank on a proven star. They like series books. You know. Jack Reacher, Inspector Rebus, Hercule fucking Poirot. Just like we've now seen, what, about a million Friday the Thirteenth movies?"

"Oh," I said, getting it now. "Well, that shouldn't be a problem."

"Good."

"So," I said, again afraid to ask.

"Well," she said, choosing her words carefully, "if it comes down the way it's looking, you're gonna be doing nothing but writing about our little friend Lieutenant Randolph for a long time. They're talking a three-book deal."

"And?"

"And you're gonna be a millionaire," Natalie said. "Several times over if they make any movies from the books."

My eyes damned near bugged out of my head at that one. Sure, I knew it was lucrative if you reached the bestseller list. Still, a millionaire right off the bat?

"So get your ass moving on that outline, okay?"

"Sure thing, boss."

"And one other thing," she said.

"What?"

"I've got your editor–the one in Chicago–lined up to help you with this."

"Oh?"

"Yep."

"So who is he?"

"She," Natalie corrected me. "She's from Chicago. We use her sometimes. I'll give her your number. You get together with her. Quick as you can. You two get this into final form as soon as possible, okay?"

"Sure," I said.

"Okay then," Natalie said with finality.

"Wait," I said before she could hang up. "This editor. What's her name?"

She laughed. "Oh yeah. I suppose that would help." She coughed again, a longer fit. "It's Marisa Key. You'll like her."

I heard her laughing at the last comment as she hung up.

Marisa Key? I'll like her? And that's funny?

* * * * *

The next morning, bright and early over coffee, my cell phone rang.

"Who's that?" Dad said, still reading the paper while nibbling on toast.

"Dunno," I said, not recognizing the 773 number before flipping open the cell phone. "Hello?"

"Tyler Collins?" she said. The voice was indescribable. Somewhere between deep and high without being in between. And there was a lilt to it, just the way she said my name. It came out as half question, half statement.

"Speaking," I said.

"This is Marisa Key," she continued. "Your editor."

"Ms. Key," I said. "I've been expecting you."

"What does your day look like?" she said, skipping the small talk.

"Oh, uh, give me a sec." I covered the mouthpiece and looked at Dad. "What's today look like?"

"We're caught up," he said, still reading the paper. "Maybe a few hours in the morning, but nothing major."

"I'm wide open from eleven on," I said back into the phone.

"Fine," she said. "I'll be there at eleven thirty."

"You're coming here?" I said, glad I wouldn't have to drive to Chicago.

"Yes," she confirmed. "Are there any hotels in–where are you again?"

"Grant City," I said. "And yes, we have hotels here. Two of 'em."

"Fine. Then I'll be there by eleven thirty."

"At the hotel?"

"At your house," she said, agitation surfacing at the unnecessary talk.

"You know where I live?"

"Yes."

"Okay then," I said.

She disconnected without another word.

What was Natalie foisting upon me?

* * * * *

By eleven fifteen, Dad was gone to visit Mom, and I'd showered the fine sheen of walnut dust off of my skin and out of my hair. I was changed into clean khaki slacks, a light blue oxford dress shirt with cuffs rolled to accommodate the summer heat, and boat shoes, no socks. I was putting the final touches on combing my damp and unruly hair when the doorbell rang.

Marisa Key was early.

I ran the comb through one final time, checked that I'd shaved closely enough, then bounded to and down the stairs.

Why am I hurrying like a tardy schoolboy? I though, forcing myself to slow down as I approached the door. Because her voice on the phone, her no nonsense manner, left me feeling like I was meeting my second grade teacher, I realized.

I opened the door, though, and saw that Marisa Key would never be mistaken for a second grade teacher. Lou Reed groupie maybe, but never a schoolmarm.

"Mr. Collins," she said in that indistinguishable accent.

I nodded and stepped back, looking her up and down as I did so. She was nearly as tall as me, maybe five nine, with impossibly long legs and long, sinewy features. And skinny, too. Painfully so. Like a runway model who lives on bottled water and fat free crackers–"Just two, thank you." Her hair was short, but thick and spiked, kind of like she'd stuck her finger in an outlet. Her face was part waif, part Cherokee Indian with a hint of Asian thrown in the mix. Face angling in a vee to a small chin, high cheekbones, small yet full Cupid's bow lips, tiny, pert nose, and large, deep brown eyes slanted at the corners to give the hint of Asian.

All told, Marisa Key could've been a runway model. She certainly had the build, the exotic features, and the long, awkward, gangly stride of a newborn foal.

Yet, all of this clashed with her wardrobe and makeup. Her clothes were straight from a punk rock concert. Tight black jeans, black leather motorcycle boots with metal studs, tight t-shirt ending two inches above her jeans to reveal the sharp, jutting hipbones of the terminally skinny and the hint of a tatoo of unknown design, studded black leather bracelets on her wrists, and a large black leather bag slung over her shoulder. Her makeup only embellished this. Black mascara, lipstick, and nail polish and a diamond stud in her left nostril.

The overall look made it impossible to guess her age. She could've passed for sixteen, but she could also be my age.

"Where shall we work," she said, ignoring my roaming eyes and the astonished look that I know was plastered on my face.

"Uh . . . I . . . ."

"Do you have a dining room table?" she said.

I nodded, focusing my stare on her impossibly dark brown eyes.

"Can you run a chord to your laptop from there?"

"Uh, yeah," I managed. "Sure."

"Fine," she said, turning toward the kitchen and seeking out the dining room. "Get your laptop and bring it to the table."

I obeyed.

A few minutes later, I had the laptop fired up and we were seated at the table. She pulled the laptop in front of her and motioned for me to slide closer so we could both see the screen.

"Okay," she said once I'd booted the final version of Long Gone, "time to get to work."

She reached into her black bag and pulled out a tattered copy of the Long Gone manuscript. It was huge, at least six inches thick, bound together with several thick rubber bands, and compounded by hundreds of yellow post it notes stuck throughout the manuscript.

"You've already read it?" I said, watching her pull the rubber bands off.

"Of course."

"What did you think?" I said, fishing for a compliment.

She turned and stared at me, though. Her look said it all: You're wasting my time.

"You're a capable writer, Mr. Collins," she said.

"Tyler," I said automatically. Then I paused.

"Just capable?"

She made a face. "That's better than most."

"Really?"

"Really," she said, fanning the first ten pages in front of us. "Now can we get started?"

"Sure."

"Good," she said, emphasizing that we wouldn't be wasting any more time.

And we didn't. Jesus, what's to say? She'd had the manuscript for a week, and the whole thing was littered with her notes. Notes on little things. Isn't there a better word to use here? What're you saying here? Is this the best way to say it? Tighten this passage up. You're letting the conflict wane here. The tension's dying.

And that was just the first sixty pages, which took us until six thirty to complete. In seven hours, we took two potty breaks and she took three smoke breaks, standing on the back porch staring into the distance while she huffed down her cigarettes. I tried to engage her in conversation during her first smoke break, but her look told me that wasn't such a hot idea.

I had to admit, though: She was good. Fucking brilliant, actually. I was amazed at the improvement when I reread the first fifteen pages against my final manuscript–the manuscript that was probably going to make me a millionaire. The changes were subtle. A word here, move a sentence there, make the dialogue more vague here and more explicit over here. The overall effect was magical, though. It was really a massive improvement.

"Well," she said, pushing herself back from the table as I read our changes. Okay, her changes.

"Enough for one day?" I said.

She nodded. "I'm hungry. Are there any decent restaurants in this town?"

I smiled.

"Well?" she said.

"Can I take you to dinner?"

She shook her head. "That won't be necessary, Mr. Collins."

"Probably not," I said. "But I want to."

Her look told me to back off, which made me try all that much harder.

"Listen," I said, "I really want to talk about this. About you. How you do this. So if you don't mind, I'd like to take you to dinner."

She fixed me with her stare, her lips set tight, and said nothing.

I decided to wait her out, trying to put on an eager, innocent face as I did so. After a moment, that caused a flicker at the corner of her lips, the closest thing to a smile I'd seen from her all day.

"Fine," she said, reaching over and bundling up the loose pages of manuscript into a tidy pile. "Then we'll make it a working dinner. We should be able to get another ten pages done."

I tried to convey with my body language and fallen face that this wasn't what I had in mind, but she ignored me.

"Bring the laptop," she said, pushing away from the table and slinging her bag over her shoulder.

I obeyed.

Again.

* * * * *

Any thoughts that Marisa Key was an anorexic were quickly dispelled over dinner. I watched her steadily plow through a bowl–not a cup–of gazpacho followed by a main course of Mexican stuffed meatloaf with grilled zucchini and chipotle-cheese smashed potatoes. When she was finished, the plate looked like it had just come out of the dishwasher.

"Still hungry?" I said, looking at my half-eaten braised brisket sandwich with a side of fresh fruit.

"Sure," she said, sliding her plate out of the way and sliding mine in front of her.

And the whole time she ate, we kept editing the manuscript.

It was going faster now as I learned to trust her advice and she figured out my own predilections for sentence construction and word choice.

The waitress approached as Marisa finished the last of the fruit. It was Nicole. She and her husband owned the place. She took one look at the plates, then a glance at Marisa.

"Dessert?"

"What do you have?" Marisa asked, not bothering to look up from the laptop she was pecking away on.

Nicole's look was disbelief. I could only give a slight shrug and smile in response.

Nicole gave the dessert choices, and Marisa chose the Bananas Foster over cinnamon ice cream.

"Two spoons?" Nicole said.

Marisa looked at her, then at me. "Do you want some, Mr. Collins."

I just smiled and shook my head. "Just coffee, please."

Nicole almost burst out laughing, but Marisa didn't notice.

"Would you please stop calling me Mr. Collins?" I said.

"It's your name," she replied, pointing at the manuscript. "What about this?"

"I prefer Tyler," I said, not to be deterred. "I mean, we're probably about the same age, right?"

"Whatever," she said, the impatience showing again. "Fine. Tyler. I'll call you Tyler, okay? So, Tyler, what should we do here? Tyler?"

"Yeah," I said, smiling at her petulance. "Fine. Let's change it."

"How?"

"What's your idea?"

"To get you to tell me how to tighten it," she said, her speech going slow.

"No," I said. "I wanted to have dinner to get ideas on how to edit my work better. Instead, we've spent the evening doing more editing without you really telling me anything. So I want to know how you'd do it, and I want you to tell me why. Hell, I want you to tell me how you even saw this . . . this . . . the flaw here."

She frowned, then looked at the laptop and saved the work, both on the internal hard drive and on a flash drive. Flipping the laptop shut, she pushed it aside and again bundled up the manuscript, which she stacked on top of the laptop and pushed it aside just in time for Nicole to place her dessert in front of her.

Picking up her spoon and taking a bite, she turned to me. "Okay, shoot. What do you want to know?"

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-five."

"How'd you get into this? Editing?"

"I'm in the graduate school at Northwestern. Working on my doctorate. This pays the bills."

"Major?"

"English and creative writing."

"Have you written anything?"

Her face gave a brief flash of anger at this one, and she said nothing.

"So how long have you been editing professionally?"

"Four years."

"Why do you do it?"

"Like I said, it pays the bills. School's not cheap, you know."

I nodded.

"How long did it take you to go through and damned near tear apart every page of my manuscript?"

Her eyes narrowed.

"There's no need to be offended," she said. "It's my job."

"I'm not offended," I protested. "I'm curious. Jesus, I spent two months editing this, and you just got it last week. So how long did it take?"

"Three days," she said, shoveling more Bananas Foster into her mouth. "This is good, by the way. You sure you wouldn't like some?"

"No, I'm fine," I said, but she already had a spoon full of ice cream and caramelized banana in front of my mouth.

"Really," she said. "Try it."

So I rolled my eyes and tried it.

"You're right," I said, taking the spoon from her and taking a piece of the banana glazed with caramel and melted ice cream.

She flashed a smile, the first true smile of the day.

"Listen," she said as we shared the rest of the dessert, "I got it in on Sunday morning. I spent seventeen, eighteen hours a day for three days."

"So what's the first thing you did?"

"Read the whole thing. Twice."

"You a speed reader?"

She shook her head. "Fast, but not really a speed reader. And it goes faster the second time anyways. You know what you're reading. The second time, I start making notes of where the plot's getting weak, if a word or phrase jars me, something's unclear. You know."

I nodded. I thought I knew. I thought I knew real well until I'd met with her and seen her find mistakes every other page of my manuscript. Now, I realized, I didn't know shit.

"And after that?"

She scooped up the last bite of dessert and held her spoon toward me. I waved it off to her obvious delight.

"After that," she said, "I just keep going over it."

"So how many times did you go over it?"

She shrugged. "Dunno. Twelve. Maybe fourteen. A lot."

"They pay you well for this?"

She hesitated before answering. "Well enough."

"Covering your expenses while you're here?"

She shook her head. "They want me to drive to and from Chicago every day. Not practical, though."

I pulled my cell phone out.

"Who're you calling?" she said, her eyes going wide.

"They're paying for your room," I said. "And a meal allowance."

She shook her head frantically, reaching over to take the cell phone from me. I turned my shoulder to block her out.

"Natalie," I said when she answered.

"Hello, Tyler," she croaked. I'd never seen her, but I could picture Thelma Diamond, the old bailiff on Night Court, chain smoking cigarettes while talking to me.

"Marisa's here," I said.

"Good," she chuckled. "And?"

"And she needs the publisher–whoever that's gonna be–they need to pay for her room and meals while she's here."

"But she's only an hour away," Natalie protested.

"Which is two hours a day wasted on driving when it could be spent on getting this thing done," I said.

Natalie was silent for a moment before speaking.

"You willing to put everything aside until this is done?"

"Yes," I said, looking at Marisa glaring at me.

Natalie sighed. "Fine. After all, what's a room cost in Podunk, Illinois?"

"And Natalie?"

"What?"

"This was at my insistence," I said, staring right back at Marisa as I spoke. "Marisa's pissed off I'm even asking for this, okay?"

Natalie laughed her wheezing laugh. "Told you she's a pistol."

"No," I said, "you told me nothing. Just a vague warning that has proven all too true."

Natalie seemed to think that was the funniest thing she'd heard all day. She was still laughing aloud when I clicked the phone shut.

"You have school to pay for," I said, sliding the phone into my pocket. "The thousand or so in rooms and meals is better borne by those who can better afford it, okay?"

But the glare didn't leave her face. Instead, she stomped off to the restroom, then returned and bundled all of her things up.

"Eight o'clock," she said, staring down at me. "See you then."

* * * * *

By late the next day, we'd plowed through another seventy pages of the manuscript, going back to make additional changes in the first sixty pages as we did so. By the end of the afternoon, I was wiped, mentally and physically.

"Enough," Marisa said, her face impassive as I rubbed the exhaustion from my eyes.

I nodded.

"Tomorrow then," she said, standing and scooping everything back into her bag.

"Wait," I said, reaching out to her arm.

She jerked it away and glared at me.

"What," she glared.

"Why're you so pissed?" I said. "All fucking day you've been . . . well, pissed."

"You shouldn't have done that," she said.




What You Wish For Pt. 03



"What? Arranged for the hotel room and the meals?"

She only glared in response.

"I didn't do it just for you," I said. "I did it so we could get this done faster, too."

"Yeah," she said, still tense and pissed. "Whatever."

"I just don't see why it's such a– "

"Because," she fumed. "Because they don't want hired gun editors making too many demands, Mr. Collins. Because if we do, they just go to someone else. Okay, Mr. Collins? So you got your way, but I may get fewer jobs because of it. So there. You fucking happy now?"

I could only stare back, embarrassed I'd tried to do something nice for her and maybe only screwed up her livelihood.

Then I reached for my phone and dialed.

"Still going well?" Natalie rasped.

"Great," I said. "She's incredible."

Natalie gave a wheezing cackle at that. "Yeah. Right."

"No, really," I said. "We're really moving along."

"That's great, kiddo."

"That call yesterday," I said. "Is she gonna get in trouble over it or anything?"

"Publishers may bitch," she said. "Depends on who gets the book, really."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Didn't really think you cared," she said, surprised at the sudden anger in my voice.

"Then don't do it," I said. "I'll take care of it myself, okay?"

"Tyler," Natalie said, "I'll square it. Okay? Really."

"We're not taking that chance," I said, looking at Marisa as I spoke. Her features were still impassive bordering on pissed with a new touch of too little, too late.

"You really like her, don't you?" Natalie said, amazed.

"She's fucking brilliant," I said. "And I want to make damned sure she'll work with me when the next one's ready."

"Okay," Natalie said. "Consider it done. Hell, we'll split it if that's okay."

"No," I said. "I'll take care of it all myself."

"If that's what you want," she said, her voice getting soft like she was amazed.

"And this whole mess," I said. "It stays between us, okay? And you don't hold it against her in the future, right?"

"I wouldn't have done that," she protested. But her protests may have been a bit too energetic.

"I mean it," I said. "If she's not getting work because I was a dumbass, I'll hear about it. And if she won't do my next book when it's ready, I'll know why. Okay?"

"Settle down, Tyler," Natalie said. "I said it's forgotten, so it's forgotten."

"Okay," I softened. "Thanks. And sorry for sticking my nose in."

"Don't worry about it, kiddo," she wheezed before hanging up.

I turned and looked at Marisa. "Okay?"

It was little more than a twitch, but her nod was perceptible.

"And I'm sorry," I said. "I won't stick my nose in anymore."

She scrunched her lips together and to one side, then nodded again.

"So now that I'm the one paying," I said, "can I buy you dinner before you go back to your room for the night?"

"Just a burger, though," she said. "Not as expensive as last night."

"I've got the money to buy you better dinner than a– "

"Just a burger," she repeated.

I stared at her for a moment, watching her eyes flare up again.

"The Hitching Rail it is," I said, pushing back from the table.

CHAPTER NINE

We took separate cars to the restaurant, and I arrived there first. I was no sooner in the door than I was accosted in a tight hug and a deep kiss.

"Hey you," Allie said, coming up for air.

"Hey, babe," I said, kissing her cheek before hugging her to me again.

She was good to hug, and I seemed to need the hug for some reason. Probably because I'd just spent ten hours with Marisa glaring, snorting, and all around treating me like shit.

"You eat yet?" she whispered into my ear.

I shook my head and broke the hug.

"Actually, I'm meeting someone here," I said. "Kind of a working dinner."

"Oh," she said, almost pouting.

"But you can join us," I offered.

"Is he here already?"

I saw Marisa getting out of her car and walking across the parking lot to the entrance.

"She," I said, nodding my head out the window.

"You're kidding, right?" Allie said, trying to hide the look of horror as she watched the tall, skinny Goth chick stride through the door.

"Be nice," I whispered, then turned to Marisa as she entered. "Marisa, meet Allisyn. My . . . uh . . . well, my girlfriend."

Marisa nodded, looked at Allisyn, then stuck her hand out. "Allisyn."

Allisyn tried to smile as she returned the handshake, but her eyes were locked on Marisa's black make-up and spiked hair.

"It is okay if she joins us for dinner?" I said to Marisa.

"Your ticket," Marisa shrugged. "Invite whoever you want."

Within minutes, we were seated and our orders placed.

"So you wanna work on this or what?" Marisa said to my right.

"Work on what?" Allie said to my left.

"His book," Marisa answered, shooting a quick glance at me.

"Book?"

"I've written a book," I explained.

"Really," Allie said, like she didn't believe us. "A book. And you're . . . what . . . his agent?"

"Editor," Marisa mumbled, staring down at her Diet Coke.

"A book?" Allie said again, her face a mixture of disbelief and excitement. "You're not shitting me? You've written something, and she's editing it for you?"

"Go ahead and show her," I said to Marisa.

Marisa pulled the tattered manuscript from her bag and laid it with a thump in front of Allie.

"Holy shit," Allie said, running her fingers over the title before flipping through the manuscript. "It's huge."

She looked at me.

"I was gonna tell you once we got a publisher for it," I said. "Not like it's a secret or anything."

I looked directly at Marisa as I spoke the last.

"So how do you get a publisher?" Allie said, her eyes glued to the manuscript as she flipped through it.

So the next hour was spent discussing when and why I started writing a book, what the book was about, and all the shit involved in getting it published. I tried to get Marisa more involved with the conversation, but she seemed content to eat her burger and fries, along with a basket of cookies for dessert only one of which she shared with me and Allie. Occasionally, she offered a point of clarification on the publishing process, but that was about it.

Then Allie just confronted her point blank, and Marisa had no alternative but to answer.

"How many books have you edited so far?" she asked Marisa.

"Nineteen."

"Any I've heard of?"

Marisa named three or four that had snuck into the bestseller lists.

"And this one? How does it rate against those," Allie said.

Marisa only shrugged.

"Come on," Allie prodded. "You've seen the ones that are good, the ones that aren't so good, right?"

"They were all pretty good," Marisa said, avoiding my bemused stare as she spoke.

"So how's this one?"

She only chewed her lip in response, her shoulders and arms tense as she gripped the Diet Coke in front of her.

"You won't hurt his feelings," Allie said. "Right Tyler?"

"Not a bit," I agreed.

"So how is it? How does it compare?"

Marisa wouldn't budge, though.

Allie shot me a look. What's going on here? the look said. I shrugged.

Allie turned back to Marisa, leaning over the table and lowering her voice.

"Is it that bad?"

Marisa's head shot up like she'd been slapped.

"You're kidding me, right? That bad?"

"So it's good?" Allie prompted.

"It's the best thing I've ever worked on," Marisa said, then shot me an embarrassed look.

"So you think it's– "

"I can't tell you if it's going to sell," she said, looking back at the table. "But I can tell you that if the goddamned public knows shit from shinola, it's going to be huge."

Allie's mouth was open. "That good?"

"Better," Marisa said.

"So it's better than just capable?" I said, smiling at her initial description of Long Gone.

She looked at me, then looked back at the table.

"Jesus, Tyler," Allie said, watching Marisa's reaction.

"Sorry," I said. "Why don't we all go get a beer?"

"Sure," Allie said, standing.

Marisa looked from me to Allie, then back again.

"I'm just gonna get back and turn in for the night if that's okay."

Allie tried to talk her into staying, but it was a no go. So Marisa left, while Allie and I moseyed to the bar for a drink.

Halfway through our first beer, Allie started grinning.

"What?" I said.

"This beer," she said, making a face.

"What's wrong with it?"

"Doesn't taste right."

"Let me get you a different one," I said, motioning to the bartender.

"It's not that," she said, leaning in close. "I'm just trying to think of something that would taste maybe a little bit better."

I got the picture.

We rushed back to her house, and I soon discovered that she was right.

She tasted way better than Amstel Light.

* * * * *

"She's . . . strange," Allisyn said while we snuggled in post coital bliss.

"How so?"

Allie snorted. "Like you didn't notice."

"You mean the make-up?" I offered. "The black clothes and all that?"

"For starters," she said, rolling over and facing me. "But she's . . . well . . . she seems angry."

"At me?"

"More like at the whole world."

I only stared in response, my mind wandering over the few days I'd known Marisa and the hours we'd spent going over the book.

"Not like psycho killer pissed at the world," Allie explained. "More like 'life sucks and everyone's an asshole' pissed. Know what I mean?"

"Yeah," I said, starting to nod. "I suppose you could see it that way. Still. . . ."

"What?" Allie prompted when I didn't finish my last sentence.

I shrugged. "Just don't really know her, I guess. Could be anger. Could be just shy, too, or having a bad day. I mean, c'mon, you only met her for an hour over dinner."

Allie peered into my eyes, contemplating my words. Then she smiled, which turned into a grin.

"That's why I love you," she said. "You're so sweet. You just can't really say a bad thing about anyone, can you?"

"Love me?" I said, tensing at the mere mention of the word.

Her smile only got broader.

"You know what I mean," she said, slithering her head under the covers and showing me exactly what she meant.

* * * * *

The next five days were spent with Marisa. Ten to twelve hours a day of editing, tightening, changing a word here and cutting some there.

On the fourth morning, I noticed something I hadn't noticed the previous two days. Marisa was showing up with additional notes and changes for the things we'd already gone over.

"When are you doing this?" I asked.

"What?" she snapped, agitated for the millionth time at my time wasting questions.

"Going back over the stuff we already covered? The changes we've already made?"

"At night. After dinner. What's the difference? It needs to be done."

Jesus, I thought. She's going back and putting in another four or five hours while I'm out in the shop working on dwindling Dad's backlog and doing his bookkeeping.

"Just didn't really notice before," I said. "That you were doing it."

She rolled her eyes, then stared at me impatiently.

"Okay. Good. Now you know. Can we get back to work here?"

And that's when I realized she wasn't really all that pissed off with the world. Allie had it wrong. Marisa was angry a lot. Definitely. But it was an anger born of suffering fools. She was focused, and she got impatient when her focus was derailed. 

I smiled at the realization and decided then and there to test my hypothesis.

"So you date anyone?"

"None of your business," she said, not bothering to look up from the laptop as she typed some changes.

"Ever been married?"

"Not answering," she said, turning to the manuscript and pointing at a passage we'd just gone over. "You sure on this one?"

"Yeah," I said. "What about kids? You have any kids?"

There it was, the straw that broke the camel's back.

"What the hell," she said. "I mean, who cares, Tyler. My personal life is none of your concern. This books is your concern, got it? And the sooner you quit worrying about my social life and start worrying about turning this piece of shit into a readable story, the better we'll both be."

"You said it was already really good," I shot back, enjoying the argument I'd started.

"For an unpolished piece of crap," she said, standing. "But it needs work. And we don't have much time to get it done."

"Then where you goin'?" I said, standing with her.

"Outside for a cigarette," she said, stalking toward the kitchen door. "Alone."

I smiled as I watched her flick open her Zippo and light up the smoke, puffing furiously to rid herself of the tension I'd created.

As she was finishing, Dad pulled into the driveway.

I watched him get out of the truck and look at the stranger smoking on his back porch. The look of horror on his face was priceless. I'd told him about the editor, but I hadn't described her to him. And he'd been gone to the rehab clinic for fifteen hours a day for most of the previous two weeks, so he'd never seen her.

The look on his face as he walked toward her, then past her with mumbled greetings met by a curt nod of Marisa's head, had me chuckling as he opened the door and entered the kitchen.

"Is that . . .?" he sputtered.

"Yep," I beamed. "What d'ya think of her?"

He turned his head and looked, then turned back to me.

"You're kidding me, right? She's gonna help you get this book thing taken care of?"

"She's the one."

"She any good?"

The look on his face told me he wouldn't believe any affirmations of her competence, but I was feeling particularly puckish that morning.

"Actually, Dad, she's an absolute genius."

"She's from Chicago, ain't she?"

That seemed obvious. Goth chicks were unheard of in Grant City, even amongst the student body of our local liberal arts and sciences college.

I only smiled and nodded.

"Jesus," he said, shaking his head as he walked past me and toward the stairs to change into work clothes. I could hear his muttering as he climbed the stairs.

Marisa returned from her smoke break a few minutes later, and we got back at it without more questions.

When Dad went to the shop, he went out the front door, avoiding us entirely.

CHAPTER TEN

It was day eleven, and Marisa and I were twenty-three pages from done when my cell phone rang in the late morning.

"Natalie?" I said.

"We've finally got a winning bid," she said, her enthusiasm nearly jumping through the phone at me.

I froze, afraid to ask.

"Well?" she prodded. "Aren't you gonna ask who? How much?"

"How many books is the deal?" I said, starting slowly.

"Three," she said, "with an option for two more."

"So I have to write five Lieutenant Randolph books?"

"Nah. Just three. If you can still come up with it, then two more and they get first dibs on 'em."

"Terms?"

"Your royalty is fifteen percent, which is pretty good. Not the best, but definitely above average for a first timer. Long Gone will have a first printing of two hundred fifty thousand. Your advance is a third of the royalties from the first run, the balance of your royalties payable quarterly."

"And what're they charging up front?"

"Seventeen bucks a book."

I tried to do the math in my head, but failed.

"A little over two hundred grand when you sign the contract," she said. "The balance paid as the sales surpass the first one third of the initial run. Got it so far?"

I nodded. Two hundred grand. Up front, for the love of God!

"Okay," she continued. "Then here's the best part. Your rate goes all the way up to eighteen for any copies–hardcover or paperback–over a half million. That's really good, by the way. Won't be as much money on the trade paperbacks, of course. They don't sell 'em for as much. But still, it's good money."

The few percentage points didn't seem like much to me, but they really had her excited.

"Now," she crowed, the wheeze gone from her voice, "here's the best part. The movie rights."

"You've already got someone for them?"

"Uh huh. We sold the option for a half mil, percentage of gross receipts if it's made into a movie."

"So I get five hundred grand even if they don't make a movie out of it?"

"Bingo."

"When?"

"As soon as you sign."

"And when can I sign all of this?"

"Soon as you can get your ass to Miami, sweetie."

I sat back, staring at Marisa, but not seeing her.

"So please tell me it's almost done, Tyler," Natalie said.

"No later than noon tomorrow," I said.

I heard her sigh of relief.

"That's great time, kiddo. Then you can come down here the day after?"

"Sure."

"See ya then."

I flipped the cell phone shut and stared at the ceiling.

"Good news?" Marisa asked.

I looked at her and nodded. "It's sold."

She gave a tight smile.

"Good," she said. "Then let's get moving. You promised this by noon tomorrow."

I don't know what came over me. Probably the giddiness of the whole thing. Whatever it was, I just leaned over and swept Marisa into my arms and gave her a big, tight hug, nearly dragging her out of her chair and sending us both to the floor.

With the hug, I felt the tension ease from my body. I also felt her body get more tense as the hug went along.

"Sorry," I mumbled into her ear, breaking the hug and looking at her in embarrassment.

"Whatever," she said, easing before looking at the manuscript. "Where were we?"

* * * * *

We finished at three the following afternoon. Marisa e-mailed the completed manuscript to Natalie, then started sweeping the manuscript into order before wrapping it in rubber bands and tossing it–for the final time–into her purse.

"Let's celebrate," I said.

She looked at me, then shook her head.

"Come on," I prodded. "Just one final meal at the Bar and Grill. They've got a new dessert."

She held back, but I pressed.

"Listen," I said. "I'm sure you're sick of me by now. Probably just want to get the hell out of here and get a real meal at some hidden little gem in the city. But we need to start a tradition here."

"Tradition," she said.

"Tradition," I repeated. "You're gonna be the editor on all my books. If you'll have me, that is. And we'll always end the editing process with dinner at the Bar and Grill. Then you'll forget about me for six months or so until you have to come back, and I'll spend all that time trying to get another book written. Then, we'll start all over again. And end it–again–at the Bar and Grill."

"Tradition," she said again, a smile curling the corner of her lips for only the second time since we'd met.

"Like Thanksgiving turkey," I beamed.

"Santa Claus," she said.

"Exactly."

"Can't buck tradition, I suppose," she said. "Even if it's only the start of one."

"Gotta start somewhere," I said.

She smiled fully now, teeth and all. And it was a pretty smile, assuming you could get around the whole black lipstick thing.

"Should we call your girlfriend?"

I shook my head. "Nope."

She tilted her head. "Why not?"

"Because we're starting a tradition," I reasoned. "I don't know if we'll still be together next year when we do this again, but then we'd have to invite her anyway."

"Because of the whole tradition thing," Marisa said, nodding in mock serious understanding.

"Exactly."

"Okay," she said, standing and scooping the rest of her belongings from the table and into her massive black bag. "Pick me up at five-thirty."

"Done."

* * * * *

By quarter to six, we were seated at the Bar and Grill. Marisa was demolishing a Thai-glazed chicken wings appetizer and I was sipping my beer and watching her in amazement.

"What?" she said, seeing me staring as she sucked the sauce off of her long, delicate fingers.

"I just don't know how you eat so much," I said. "And you're so . . . uh . . . . You really keep your shape well."

"Skinny," she said, pushing the empty plate to the side. "You can say it. Skinny, scrawny, bean pole. I know what I look like."




What You Wish For Pt. 03



I smiled. "So how do you do it?"

"Dunno," she replied. "Just lucky I guess."

"So what do you do? I mean, I know you're in graduate school and all. But why? For what?"

"Writing," she said. "I love books. I mean really, really, really love 'em. They're my passion, my whole reason for being."

"So you want to teach?"

Frankly, the thought of this Goth-looking girl standing in front of a class of serious college students seemed a bit far fetched.

"Sure. I suppose so."

She smiled as the waitress delivered our dinners. Roadhouse burger with sweet potato fries for her, grilled chicken sandwich with fresh fruit for me. Sorry, but I can't get away with eating like Marisa. I'd weigh four hundred pounds in about a week.

"I really want to write, though," she said with a mouthful of food.

"Books? Short stories? Poems?"

She shrugged. "Probably not poetry. Doesn't really excite me all that much. Short stories are nice, too, but they don't make enough to live on. So I guess I'm gonna have to start with books sometime soon."

"Any ideas?"

She shook her head, cramming a bunch of fries in after her latest gulp of burger and chasing it down with a sip of Bacardi and Coke.

"Need more experience," she said when she finally swallowed. "You know. Life experiences."

"What about your life's experiences?"

Okay, I was on a roll, getting her to open up and talk with me more than the previous week and a half combined. Might as well push the point.

Her look told me she didn't understand the question, though.

"You married? Engaged? Kids? Any brothers or sisters? Where are you from? You know. Tell me about Marisa Key."

"Not much to tell. Born and raised in Chicago. Half sister. Mom and Dad divorced when I was seven. I've seen him maybe ten times since. Mom's a teacher; sister's a lawyer. Never married or engaged, and I'm not seeing anyone now."

I nodded.

"So your half-sister the lawyer," I said, my eyes widening as I looked at her and saw the faintest familiarity. It wasn't much, but it was there.

"Yeah, your Florida girlfriend. Susan's my sister. Different father, same mother."

I was stunned. No wonder Natalie had laughed.

"Don't pout," Marisa said, seeing the emotions rushing through my face.

"So when Susan said she knew an agent?"

"She lied," Marisa confessed. "I know the agent. But when she read your manuscript, she called me and told me I had to read it and try to get someone to look at it for you. So she sent it to me and I read it. What can I say? She was right. It was incredible."

"So you called Natalie," I continued the story for her.

Marisa nodded. "I've worked for her before. Told her I'd found a brilliant new manuscript that needed an agent to market it. Brand new author. It took some begging and pleading, but she agreed to read it if Susan could get it to her."

"And the rest is history," I concluded.

"Pretty much," Marisa agreed.

We finished our dinners in silence, me not knowing how to feel and wondering why I even gave a shit.

"Done pouting?" she said, pushing her plate aside then reaching for a piece of melon on my plate.

I laughed. "Nothing to pout about, is there?"

She shrugged.

"I mean, you did me a real big favor. Just wish I'd known earlier, I guess."

"What's the difference?"

"I wouldn't have backed off so quickly on making Natalie pay for the room."

She shook her head. "It's still a business. Always remember that."

"And your cut? Do you get something?"

She shrugged. "Natalie will probably give me a bonus of some kind. Not much, but something."

"Then what's in it for you?"

She smiled. "You're kidding, right?"

"I know it's not the joy of my company. You've made that clear for the past eleven days."

"The chance to make sure another promising author gets a chance?" she offered.

I shook my head.

"Fine," she admitted. "Natalie agreed to be my agent if I can get a book written and it's worth a shit, okay?"

I nodded. "Fair enough."

"So now you know everything, right?"

"Suppose so."

The waitress cleared the dirty plates, and Marisa ordered the warm peach melba and a glass of Pinot Grigio to go with it.

"So how's Susan doing?" I said.

"She liked you," Marisa replied, finishing her Bacardi and Coke and staring impatiently at the kitchen door where her dessert was being made. "A lot."

"She seeing anyone yet?"

Marisa turned back to me. "You really care?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"She just made it sound like you were just fuck buddies is all."

"That wasn't by my choice," I argued, feeling my anger rising.

"Jesus, Tyler," she said, making a face at my reaction. "Chill, man. Nothing wrong with it even if you were. I'm just sayin'."

"Saying what? That she was just a convenient piece of ass? That that's all I cared about?"

"Hey," she said, "settle down. I don't really know how you felt–or still feel–about her, okay?"

I nodded, trying to settle down.

"Who's that over there?" Marisa said.

"Don't change the subject," I replied.

"It's just that she's been staring at you for the past twenty minutes and I can't tell by her face whether it's good or bad."

I started to turn, but Marisa's hand on my arm stopped me.

"Don't look," she said. "She looks a lot like your girlfriend. What's her name."

"Allisyn."

"Yeah, her. And she's with a guy and a baby."

"My ex-wife," I said. "With her new family."

Marisa frowned at that, then picked up her spoon and took a bite of the peach melba as it was slid in front of her.

"Wanna bite?" she said with a mouthful of peaches, ice cream, and raspberry puree.

I shook my head, content to sip my after dinner cup of strong, black coffee.

"So that's her new husband?"

"And their baby," I said, sneaking a quick look to confirm it was, in fact, Kristin. She was staring at me, as was Randy, who appeared depressed by the whole thing. Kristin turned away, but Randy just kept right on looking.

Marisa said something that, with her mouthful of food, I didn't catch.

"What?"

She swallowed, took a sip of wine, then spoke in a low voice. "I said that's not his baby."

"What d'ya mean that's not his baby? Of course it is. That's why she left. So she could move up here, continue her affair with him, get knocked up by him, and start a whole new family."

"When was the baby born?"

"Who cares?"

"Because there's no way that's his baby," she said, her eyes looking into mine as she spoke. There was a touch of fear there and maybe sadness, and I had no idea what was coming over her.

"It's his," I said again.

"Look at him, Tyler. He's, what, five six maybe. Stocky build. Jet black hair and dark, dark skin tone. Look at the baby. He's big. I'm guessing he's about a year, but he's big even for a baby. She's not that big; your ex, that is. And the baby's got the blondest hair and bluest eyes I've ever seen. Christ, they're fifteen feet away and I can see the blue in those eyes."

"So what're you saying?" I said, knowing exactly what she was saying.

"You've got real light brown hair," she said, sipping her wine and looking over my shoulder at Kristin's table. "And I'll bet you were blonde when you were little. Real blonde."

"He's not mine," I said.

"And you have blue eyes, too. Big time. And your skin's light. Not dark like what's his name's skin tone."

"He's not my baby," I whispered, my voice going hoarse as I counted months in my head.

"Then when was he born?"

I shrugged. "Don't know."

She nodded.

"You may want to find that out," she said, pushing her half-eaten dessert to the side before gulping down the rest of her wine.

We left without another word between us.

And I felt Kristin's eyes gouging holes in my back as we walked past them.



What You Wish For Pt. 04



Introduction.

Sorry, I've done it again. No sex in this chapter. Wait for the next chapter. There's sex in that one. This one, though, is really going to get all of you apprehensive. Oh no, you'll scream, is Tyler getting spineless? Are you really going to try shoving reconciliation down our throat? Wait and see. More importantly, let me know whether I've done anything to begin redeeming, and more fully fleshing out, the Kristin character. Remember, this is a personal exercise in creating better female characters, which can be awfully tough when you're a typically shallow male like myself.

The first chapter was posted today, the day I'm submitting this, and I'd like to thank all of you who have taken time to read and comment. And yes, the whole thing is written and being posted on consecutive days, so don't worry.

Again, thanks.

*

"It's a simple question," I said to Allisyn.

Her eyes wouldn't meet mine, though, and that gave me the answer.

"How long have you known?"

She fidgeted.

"How long?" I said, my voice getting louder.

"It became pretty obvious about six months ago," she mumbled.

"When was he born?"

Allie shot me a what-does-that-matter look.

"His birthdate," I said. "When was it."

"August seventeenth last year," she said.

I did the math in my head. Yeah, it was only too possible. Kristin had been visiting her folks for much of December that year--the last month of our marriage--and she'd probably been fucking Randy the whole time. Still, it was entirely too possible that the boy was mine.

"Why didn't you tell me any of this?"

A tear formed in Allie's eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I should've said something. I know I should've. But I was . . . I don't know . . . she's really scared you'll do something is all. And she's my cousin."

"Which makes me what? Your piece of ass that you don't owe any loyalty to? Just the stupid fucker you can keep in the dark?"

"No," she cried. "I love you, Tyler. I've always loved you. But she's my cousin. We're close. You know that."

She was right: They were close. But that didn't make any difference to me. If her loyalties were torn, she should've told me.

"Please say you forgive me," Allie pleaded, tears now streaming down her face as she reached over and tried to pull me to her.

I held her off.

"What has Kristin told you?" I demanded.

"She doesn't know," Allie said. "She's afraid. Afraid you're the father and you'll find out and do something. Afraid Randy will find out and leave her."

"Why would he care? He knew the risk when he married her while she was pregnant with a kid that could've been mine."

"Because she can't have any more babies," Allie said, sniffling as her tears subsided and a sad look took over her features. "There were complications. When Ben was born. She had to have her tubes tied. And Randy wanted kids. Two or three. If he finds out this one isn't even his, he'll . . . well, it wouldn't be good."

I nodded. Kristin could be well and truly fucked. She could lose her newfound love over the mess she'd gotten all of us into.

I stood and walked to the door.

"Please don't go, Tyler. Please."

I stopped at the door, my hand on the doorknob.

"Please," she kept pleading, her sobbing getting louder and more urgent.

I opened the door and left without looking back.

* * * * *

I flew to Florida early the next morning.

Susan met me at the gate and gave me a big, crushing hug.

"I thought you'd look happier to see me," she whispered into my ear.

"Sorry," I said, forcing myself to smile. "Something's come up."

She nodded. "Marisa told me."

My eyes narrowed. "Told you how much?"

"Just that you may have a son you knew nothing about."

I nodded. "Let's go. We can talk in the car."

She smiled and took my hand, tugging me along behind her to the parking garage and her car.

"So what do I do?" I finally said as we breezed along the road.

"About what?"

"My son."

"What do you want to do?"

I thought about that. Such a deceptively simple question, but really the crux of the matter and a whole lot harder to answer than you'd think.

"I suppose I'd like to know if he's even mine."

"Good idea."

"So how do I do that?"

"Well," she said, watching the road but biting her lip in thought, "I suppose you file a paternity action up in Illinois. Or you register the Florida divorce case up there and re-open the case."

I nodded.

"Not really my kind of thing," Susan continued. "Never done a divorce or anything like that."

I sighed, knowing what I'd be doing.

"I'll call around to some people we have up in Chicago," Susan said, reading my mind. "See who they recommend for these things."

"Thanks," I said, staring at the scenery.

We drove in silence the rest of the way to Natalie's office.

"So this is the great Tyler Collins," a tiny, sixtyish woman with immaculate make-up, too much jewelry, flawless business suit, and a deep raspy voice boomed as I walked into the lobby with Susan.

"And you're Natalie," I said, extending my hand.

"Oh no, sugar," she said, pulling my hand toward her and enclosing me in a hug. "I don't get to hug too many good looking men these days. Not letting this one go to waste."

She hugged me to her, and I could smell the smoke from a million cigarettes in her pores and clothing.

I hugged back.

"You're just as handsome as Susan said you were," Natalie said, breaking the hug. "Maybe even better."

I smiled. It wasn't often I had a sixty-year old chick hitting on me in front of a former lover and a leggy, twenty-something receptionist with a rack from Playboy. The receptionist just ignored Natalie, though, apparently used to such displays of affection. Susan only laughed.

"Well," Natalie said after eyeing me up and down.

"The contracts?" I prompted.

"Okay," she said, mock disappointment in her tone but nervous excitement throughout her body. Hell, she was practically rubbing her hands in glee at the thought of what we were about to sign.

The three of us went into a conference room. Natalie motioned me and Susan to adjacent chairs, and she sat across from us.

"Here we go," she said, opening a folder and pulling out thick documents with Sign Here tags stuck throughout. She slid them across the table to me.

"You've seen these?" I said to Susan.

She nodded. "They're fine."

"Okay," I said, and spent the next ten minutes flipping through the various documents while Susan explained the terms of the documents I was signing.

"Did you even listen to me?" Susan said when I finished.

"Not really."

She frowned, and I turned to Natalie.

"These the terms you told me on the phone?"

"Of course," Natalie said.

"And they're good terms for a first-time author?"

"Great terms."

"Then what's to worry about?" I said to Natalie. "I've got the two of you covering my back, and I'm free to figure out how to give them another book."

"Within six months," Susan said.

My eyes opened wide. "That's in there somewhere?"

She threw up her arms in exasperation at my nonchalance.

"How far along are you?" Natalie asked.

"Almost done with the outline."

She nodded. "Shouldn't be a problem then, right?"

I smiled. "No. I'll get it done."

We spent the next hour discussing other technical details I didn't really give a shit about. There was a book tour to discuss, the talk show circuit if it took off as expected, what authors to read the book up front and make nice comments for the dust jacket, the cover illustration, and all manner of arcane things associated with the book. I spent most of the time nodding and agreeing with Natalie's suggestions.

Then, before I knew it, the meeting was over, and Susan and I were back in her car and heading somewhere for lunch.

"Okay," she finally said as the waitress took our drink orders and left us alone.

"Okay what?" I said, my eyes staying on the endless ocean outside the windows.

"The way I see it, you can play this thing three ways."

"Play what thing three ways?"

"You can do nothing," she said. "Just always wonder if he's your son."

I shot a look at her, not wanting to discuss what had been screaming through my mind since Marisa first suggested the possibility and Allie all but confirmed it.

"Or," Susan plodded on, ignoring my glare, "you can file a lawsuit, get a paternity test, and, if he's your's, you can get visitation and pay child support. Child support, by the way, is gonna be a lot given all the papers you just signed."

I started to protest that money didn't matter that much, but she got her last point out before I could squeak more than the first syllable.

"Or you can do the paternity test and, if he's your's, you can then do nothing. Maybe she'll just agree to it."

I shook my head. "That one's out for sure."

"Why?"

"Because I can't know that I have a son out there and then just leave it at that. You know, just abandon him to her and that bastard."

She nodded. "So what's it gonna be?"

"It's not that simple," I said, my voice getting louder than I expected.

"Yes, it is," Susan said. "It is that simple, Tyler. You either leave things as they are and always wonder or you find out and deal with it once you know. A or B. Which one do you choose?"

I thought about it, staring at the ocean and knowing she was right.

"Well?" she said as the waitress brought the drinks.

"B," I said. "It's B. I've got to know."

She nodded, smiling as she did so. "Good boy."

Then she flipped open her cell phone and called her office.

"Yeah, it's me," she said when the other side answered. "Get on the phone to our Chicago office and get me some referrals in family law for . . . just a sec."

She covered the speaker and looked at me. "What county you in?"

"Lincoln."

"Lincoln County, Illinois," she said back into the phone. "Try to hurry, and call me with names and phone numbers the second you've got them. Okay. Sure. Thanks."

She flipped the cell phone shut.

"Now," she said, spreading her napkin in her lap, "can we relax and enjoy lunch?"

We did, my mind settling now that something was being done.

By the time I was boarding my plane home three hours later, I had the names of three attorneys in my pocket and an appointment scheduled for the next afternoon with the only Grant City attorney on the list.

"You take care of yourself, Mr. Bestselling Author," Susan said, leaning in and giving me a chaste peck on the cheek.

"You, too, hotshot Florida legal eagle," I replied, hugging her tight and knowing our relationship would forever now be that of attorney and client.

* * * * *

"So," James McNally said, looking up from my Florida Judgment of Dissolution of Marriage and fixing me with his gaze, "you think this boy she now has with Walters may be yours?"

I nodded.

"Based on what?"

"He was definitely conceived while we were still married," I said.

"Were you separated?"

I shook my head. "That came about two or three weeks later."

He nodded. "And you had . . . er . . . relations with her during this time?"

"Once," I said.

"And Walters?"

I shrugged. "Not a clue."

"Was there a chance they were together?"

"I'd bet the farm on it. She was up here for a few weeks around that time."

"And they were married by the time the boy was born?"

I nodded.

"Was she showing when you saw her at the divorce hearing?"

"I thought she had just put on some weight."

He nodded, staring at me while the gears in his mind whirred through whatever legal things needed to be considered.

"There more?" he said.

"He looks like me," I said. "Light skinned, blonde hair, blue eyes."

"And Randy's . . . ."

"Yeah," I said. "None of those. And neither is Kristin, except for the blue eyes. Her hair's from a bottle, and she's darker toned."

"Okay," he said, leaning forward. "You thought this through?"

"Completely."

"You understand that you could be paying a ton in child support? Especially now with this book thing coming up?"

"I don't care," I said, getting angry that everyone seemed to think this was all about money.

"Settle down," he said. "My job is to point out all aspects of the situation to you. You make the decision, but it's damned well going to be an informed one, okay?"

"Okay. Just do it."

He smiled. It was a bright smile displaying perfect teeth and accentuating the dimpled chin. A movie star smile by a lawyer in his mid-forties still with movie star looks.

"You a shark?" I said, not trusting just the good looks to get this done.

"When I need to be," he said.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning you don't always need a shark. Sometimes you need a negotiator."

I shook my head. "Not with her. With Kristin, I need a shark."

"We'll see how it plays out and deal with it as it comes, okay?"

I wasn't sure, but he seemed confident.

"Let's find out if he's your son before we do anything else, okay?"

That made sense, and I relaxed.

"Deal."

"Good," he said. We spent the next twenty minutes going over the terms of representation, anticipated costs, and getting together the information that he needed to file the lawsuit. When we were done, he looked up at me.

"Let's not sit on this," he said. "I can have this ready tomorrow morning for you to sign. You swing by around eight and I'll get it filed when I go to court."

My look did little to hide my surprise, and he laughed at the reaction.

"It's really just a few simple documents to get it started," he said. "The more intense stuff doesn't really come into play until we get them served with Summons and get them into court."

"Them?" I said.

"Randy and Kristin," he said. "They're both gonna have to be named as defendants because they're married, because the boy was born during the marriage, and because Randy's name is undoubtedly on the birth certificate."

I hadn't realized that, but it certainly made sense. Still, it wasn't going to be any fun suing a local cop for paternity of the kid the cop thought was his own flesh and blood. No more going even a fraction over the speed limit until all of this was done.

"And you don't mind?" I said. "Suing a local cop and all?"

He shrugged. "Why should I mind? He's not gonna do anything to me. Or you, really. If he does, you let me know and I'll deal with it, okay?"

"Fair enough."

* * * * *

The next morning at five to eight, I swung by McNally's law office. It took all of three minutes to review the complaint and sign it.

On Sunday morning, two days later, the shit hit the fan when Kristin and Randy were served with the lawsuit.

* * * * *

It was ten thirty, and I was in my room revising the completed outline to make it darker and more turbulent. After working for eleven days with Marisa, it was all coming faster than the first time around. Take my newfound learning in ratcheting up tension and combine it with the newest fucking crisis in my life--caused, once again, by Kristin, the goddamned love of my fucking life--and the outline was getting darker by the moment.

"You fucking bastard," I heard Kristin scream from somewhere outside. That was followed by pounding on the door and more obscenities.

I saved my outline and backed it up, then went downstairs to answer the door.

Dad beat me to it.

"Will you settle down," he was saying to her.

She'd have none of it.

"He's trying to ruin me," she screamed. "My marriage. Just because I left him for Randy. He's never gotten over it, and now he's trying to ruin me."

"Bullshit," Dad thundered, and she froze in fear. No one, especially her own father, had ever spoken to her like that, and she didn't know how to handle it. I paused at the top of the stairs to watch for a moment.

"He's trying to find out if you've stolen his son from him," Dad continued, trying to get his anger in check. "My grandson. That's what he's trying to find out, and you goddamned well know it."

"But he's no right to-- "

"The hell he doesn't," Dad thundered again, as mad as I've ever seen him. "If that's his boy--if that's my grandson--he has every goddamned right in the world to know it. And to be a daddy to him."

The shock was now permanently plastered on Kristin's face. Her mouth was moving, but no words were coming out.

"And you, Kristin," Dad said, pointing his finger only inches from her face. "You had no fucking right to keep this from him. You know that. So don't you come here bitching and screaming that Tyler's done anything wrong because we both know that's a load of shit. You're just pissed off that this perfect little world you've set up for yourself--a world based on lies and your own goddamned selfish little needs--you're just pissed off that that perfect world's about to explode on you."

Her eyes found me at the top of the stairway, and her face was pleading with me to save her from Dad. I only raised my eyebrow in response.

"Is he wrong?" I said, walking down the stairs. "Are you sure that boy is Randy's?"

When she said nothing, I tore into her.

"You know goddamned well that Ben may be my son. You've already shared that with Allie."

Her face turned to horror at the realization Allie had spilled the beans.

"Oh, don't worry," I said, sarcasm dripping with every word, "your precious family didn't tattle on you until I forced Allie to fess up."

"But . . . but . . . Tyler . . . ." she stammered, her head swiveling from Dad to me and back again, at a loss on how to deal with two men--not one, but two--talking to her in this manner.

"And you've suspected for more than six months," I continued. "Six months, and you didn't say a goddamned word."

"But the doctor," she protested. "He said that babies don't darken--their pigment doesn't really show up--for a year or more."

"And he's a year old now," I shot back. "It hasn't darkened even one iota, has it?"

Her face told me the answer. It also told me she'd long ago realized the same thing. I wondered how many nights over the past year she'd laid in bed praying the next morning Ben would be just a shade darker, his hair turning from blonde to brown.

"So were you ever going to tell me?"

"No," she whispered, her face dropping to the floor.

"Just hope and pray he'd never find out?" Dad shot in, his disgust at the notion dripping from every word.

"Yes," she said, unable to look either of us in the eye.

"And now you're all pissed off he found out," Dad said, waving his hand in disgust, turning, and walking away. "Haven't you done enough to him for one lifetime? You try to steal his son, too?"

I said nothing, just watched Dad go into the other room before turning back and looking at the fidgeting Kristin.

"Have a seat," I said, waving my arm at the sofa and love seat.

She shuffled over and sank into the sofa, staring into her lap and saying nothing.

"Can you tell me what I ever did that was so wrong?" I said, sitting across from her and leaning over. "I mean, I loved you more than life itself. And you. You repay that by leaving me without a word. Without even the courtesy of an explanation. Jesus, you blow me off, leave me, move back here, and you can't even tell me what the fuck I did that was so wrong? What did I ever do to deserve this shit?"

"Nothing," she mumbled. "It wasn't you."

"Then," I continued, on a roll now, "then I find out from Mom and Dad that you're getting married before the ink on the divorce papers are even dry. And that you're pregnant. And that you've been fucking him all along. While we were still married. I deserved that? Your . . . what . . . your complete fucking contempt? Was I really that bad?"

She started to speak, but I wouldn't let her.

"Then," I hissed, "my editor has dinner with me to celebrate the completion of my first novel, and she's the one who has to point out to me that your son is probably mine and not Randy's? And then Allie confirms you've had the same thoughts for months, but you were afraid I'd find out?"




What You Wish For Pt. 04



She looked at me, anguish twisting her face.

"What, Kristin? Tell me: What the fuck did I ever do to you? I never cheated on you. I busted my ass to give you everything you ever wanted. I-- "

"You weren't there for me," she sobbed, the dam bursting and tears spilling down her cheeks. "I was all alone, didn't know a soul, and you were always gone. That's what. I was lonely. And then, when I came home, I wasn't lonely anymore. And you wouldn't listen. You wouldn't cut back. You-- "

"Bullshit," I thundered, causing her to shrink back and wrap in on herself. "I just didn't kiss your ass every fucking time you demanded it. You knew how much I'd have to work before we moved there. You knew how much I'd have to keep earning when you wanted your perfect house. And your shopping sprees. And those goddamned designer purses for your mother and Cilla at Christmas and the golf clubs for your old man. You could've gotten a job or made friends or done anything to help us out, but you wanted it all without having to work for it. Without me having to work for it so I could always be there to dote on you. You wanted a million bucks to fall into my lap so you'd have all your shit and I could stay home and tell you how much I loved you and keep you company. Well grow the fuck up, Kristin. Life doesn't work like that."

She was crying openly now, and for some reason that made me feel better. I'd been in enough pain over her for God knows how long; now I wanted to heap some of that pain back onto her.

"So how's that working out for your, Kristin? Randy always there for you, or are the midnight shifts beginning to wear you down? And how's that crappy little two-bedroom condo holding out with your growing family?"

The look on her face told me I'd struck a nerve. She'd fucked up and she knew it. Now she knew that I knew, too.

"Which is worse, Kristin?" I said, leaning in. "Never seeing your husband, but having all the shit you can afford or never seeing your husband and living in a crappy little apartment and shopping for clothes at the Salvation Army?"

"At least I've got my family now," she yelled back. "And my son."

"Not for long," I warned. "And not if I have anything to do with it."

"You wouldn't," she gasped, horror stretching her features. "You wouldn't take Ben from me. He doesn't even know you."

"And whose fault is that?" I shot back. "And how do you think a judge is going to view that? You hiding my own son from me?"

"Don't you even think about it," she hissed. "You'll never take my son-- "

"And what about Randy?" I piled on. "How's he gonna take it when he finds out Ben isn't his? What, with you not being able to have any more children and all."

"Fuck you," she spat.

"Been there, done that," I said, standing and walking to the door. "And now that I've done it with some others, you should know that it wasn't even that good."

Her jaw flat out dropped, stunned that anyone would talk to her daddy's little princess like that. 

I opened the door and held it for her.

"See you in court, Kristin," I said. "You and Randy both."

She whipped her purse over her shoulder and stormed past me without another word. She got in her car, slammed the door shut, and tore out of the driveway without a backward glance.

I was suddenly happy that I'd been such a prick.

And sad that she was going to do everything in her power to keep me from my son.

The turmoil churning in my guts was replicated in my updated outline, which was finished two days later.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Funny thing about writing: The more you write, the easier it becomes. You write faster and better with fewer mistakes and revisions. This was particularly the case on my second book in a series. Hell, I knew the main characters so well it was second nature to put the words in their mouths. Since this one took place just forty miles down the road from my own house--in Rockford, Illinois, a town I've been to a million times--it was also easier to envision the scenery and the mood, the weather and the beaten down, abandoned industrial buildings.

It also helped that I was devoting twelve hours a day to writing. I got up every morning at six, worked in the woodshop from seven to eleven, then wrote until I passed out from exhaustion at midnight or so. The pages just filled themselves in, and I was almost half done with the first draft by the time my first court date rolled around a month or so after Kristin confronted me and Dad.

Sitting in the busy courtroom, I was amazed anything ever got done in a court of law. The gallery benches were packed with angry, glaring people going through divorces. In the massive area in front of the judge's bench, a gaggle of attorneys were shuffling their papers, feverishly scribbling orders for the judge's signature, and making last ditch settlement efforts in hushed whispers.

Every three or four minutes, another pair of attorneys--the ones next in a long line waiting to approach--were motioned up by the judge. She was sixty or so, and the boredom of the whole thing was painted on her weary face and sluggish motions.

After twenty minutes of sitting in the cramped gallery, I saw James McNally get to the front of the line, whispering to two other attorneys. When the case in front of them finished, he found me with his eyes and motioned me forward.

"Collins against Collins now known as Walters," Judge Gluth said as I approached.

"Good morning, Your Honor," McNally said. "James McNally for the plaintiff, Mr. Collins, who is present and to my left."

"Sandra Petrowski for Mrs. Walters," a dowdy, frumpy looking little lady said. "Mrs. Walters is approaching."

I turned and watched Kristin squeeze her way between the people crowding the gallery, and I saw Randy glare at her as he started walking forward from the corner of the jury box where he'd been seated.

"And Robert Hall for Mr. Walters," a middle-aged, short attorney said.

"And what are we here for, ladies and gentlemen?" Judge Gluth said.

The attorneys looked at each other, and the other two nodded at McNally.

"My client was married to Mrs. Walters," he said, speaking easily in a conversational tone. "Their marriage was dissolved in Florida some eighteen months ago. We're moving now to enroll that judgment here and reopen the matter."

Judge Gluth waved her hand telling him to get to the point.

"Well, Judge," he continued, "Mrs. Walters gave birth to a son about a year ago."

"And you're just now getting around to setting child support?" she said.

"Actually," McNally said, "we're not even sure the child is my client's. So what we'd like to do is enroll the judgment and get an order for DNA testing to determine parentage."

Fucked up as the situation was, Judge Gluth reacted like she'd just heard McNally recite his shopping list. No reaction, and I mean none.

"Ms. Petrowski?" she said, looking at Kristin's lawyer.

"Obviously we challenge their right to ask for any such paternity testing," Petrowski said.

"Obviously," the judge said. She turned to the remaining lawyer. "Mr. Hall?"

He shot a glance at Randy, who just nodded in return.

"Well, Your Honor," he said, turning back to the judge, "my client agrees to the testing."

"Oh he does, does he?" she said, catching the glare Kristin shot Randy before directing it at me then back at Randy.

Judge Gluth pursed her lips, staring at the three of us in turn.

"Any reason I shouldn't grant the request?" Judge Gluth said to Petrowski.

"Well," she started.

"Let me cut to the chase," the judge interrupted. "Is there a scientific chance that Mr. Collins is the father of this child?"

Petrowski paused, then looked at Kristin, seeking some type of concession.

"Do you want me to ask your client in open court?" Judge Gluth said, leaning over the bench and speaking lower. "In more explicit terms, perhaps?"

Kristin lowered her head.

"No, Your Honor," Petrowski said, seeing the defeat in Kristin's shoulders. "We'll agree to enrolling the judgment and submitting mother and child to a DNA test."

"Good," Judge Gluth said, sitting back. "Get me an order."

We all nodded and stepped away.

"What just happened up there?" I asked McNally as we stood outside the courtroom.

"Randy's right pissed is what happened," McNally responded.

"You mean?"

He nodded. "She told him she hadn't had sex with you in months. No way it could be your child."

"And now that she's been forced to come clean," I started.

"Problems in Pleasantville," he concluded.

I laughed.

"What's so fucking funny?" Walters said from over my shoulder.

I turned. He was standing there, fists clenched, anger seething from his clenched fists and jaw to the popped and pulsing veins above his temples.

"What's wrong, Randy? Surprised she lied? Surprised the wife--my wife--that you were sleeping with lied to you, too?"

"Guys," Hall said, interjecting his body between us.

"Settle down," McNally added, his hand gripping my shoulder like a vice.

"And what're you gonna do if Ben's my son?" I continued, leaning over Hall's shoulder and staring into Randy's face. "You gonna leave her? The love of your life?"

His jaws worked back and forth, and his eyes spewed pure venom, but he said nothing.

"Yeah, just what I thought," I said. "Not a clue. Welcome to the fucking club."

I turned back to McNally, nodded, and walked away.

* * * * *

So just what the hell is so special about Kristin? What does she have that just turns men to mush, makes them shut up, put up with her bullshit, and beg her forgiveness when she gets pissed because she's called out on doing something wrong?

Well, the smoking hot body sure as hell helps. Kristin, even at thirty and after a child, still has the body of a college cheerleader. Nice tits, toned legs, flat tummy, and tight ass.

Or maybe it's the face from a cosmetics photo shoot. Sparkling eyes, slightly upturned nose, and lips that continuously express just the right mixture of playfulness and sexiness, all framed by beautiful, thick butterscotch blonde (from a bottle) hair.

Take those looks alone and most men would be quivering wrecks, putty in her hands to mold and mess with as she pleases.

She has more, though. She can be flirtatious, pouty, a bundle of joy and love one moment and a bundle of pure sexual magnetism the next. And she has this way of looking at men, looking at us like we're the only one for her. I know. She'd fixed me with that look a million times; sometimes to bend my will, sometimes to avoid my anger, but sometimes just because she wanted to make me happy.

Throw into the mix that she's smart and talkative and fun to be around and you have pretty much a complete package.

Her only flaw is that she was a spoiled rotten child who grew into a willful, spoiled adult not used to being denied her way. If Kristin wants something, she'd damned well better get it or there will be hell to pay.

Yet, in all our years together, I never suspected for even a moment that she'd just plain drop me like a sack of potatoes to get her way.

But poor old Randy sure should've suspected that streak in her. After all, he was only three years older than us; he'd known us both all our lives, if only from a distance. He certainly knew she was married when she started flying back home and giving him the eye. And he knew she didn't hesitate to cheat and pout and do whatever she wanted to do. Oh no, he definitely knew all of that.

Frankly, I felt for the poor bastard. Sure, he'd played a hand in ending my marriage. But Kristin had dealt the cards, not Randy. Kristin owed me honesty, loyalty, and all that other crap. Not Randy. And, frankly, had the roles been reversed, I'm not sure how I'd have handled it.

Let's cut to the chase: We can all hold our heads high and talk about how properly we're going to act if the opportunity presents itself. It's another thing altogether when you're single, such an incredible beauty makes herself available, and that beauty's husband is a thousand miles away.

Then again, I was still ecstatic that Randy was now going through just what I'd gone through. Hell, if anything he wasn't going through nearly enough. After all, they'd been shagging for only two years or so. Let her do this to you after twelve years. While you're the one married to her.

I'd been with her since fucking forever and she'd dumped me with nary a thought.

And I was way better looking, nicer, and made way more money than that little toad.

So take that, Randy.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Dad and I were both at the rehab center. I'd been going three times a week for an hour or so each time, and Mom's progress was slow but sure. Dad had been there every day for five or six hours a day, helping with the therapy, and he was still impatient with her progress.

"She's ready to go home," the doctor said again.

"But she can barely speak," Dad protested again.

"That'll just take time and patience and a lot of practice," the doctor said.

"Her walking?" I said. "Will it improve?"

He nodded. "Listen," he said. "It's not like we're gonna just send her home and that's it. She'll have physical therapy five days a week. They'll come to the house for an hour a day Monday through Friday. And she'll have a speech pathologist three days a week. The pathologist will work with all of you. Her to continue the improvement on her speech and with you two to practice with her and the like."

"Then why can't she just stay here?" I said.

"Because the insurance company won't allow it," he said. "She's reached the level where it's cheaper for this to happen in your home."

"Based on what?" Dad argued. "She won't get as much therapy at home."

"Actually, she will," the doctor said, pursing his lips as he tired of the conversation. "She'll get just as much time per week with the therapist as she's currently getting. You've seen that, Mr. Collins. You're the one helping her with her exercises and such, not the therapist."

"But we don't have the stuff at home for this," Dad continued.

"The insurance will pay for it to all be rented and installed," the doctor explained. "You'll have everything you need."

"What if I just paid for her to stay here?" I said.

The doctor looked at me like I was crazy and didn't know what I was talking about.

"I've more than enough to pay for her stay," I said.

He just shook his head, though. "You'd be wasting your money. Frankly, she should've been discharged back home a week ago."

"Why?"

"The environment," the doctor soldiered on. "She's more familiar, more comfortable in her own home. Once you get her there, her recovery rate will increase at a pretty steady clip. Faster than here. So long as the two of you do what the physical therapist and speech pathologist tell you to do. And I mean everything. If anything, do too much."

I looked at Dad, who didn't seem convinced, then back to the doctor.

"And if her recovery goes backward?"

"One of them will tell us here and we'll evaluate the best course of action," he said. He paused, looking at both of us. He sighed, but his face softened. He'd been through this with hundreds of unbelieving families before us.

"Listen," he said. "Trust me. You'll see for yourselves. I know it's hard to believe, but she really has made rapid progress here. And we expect her to regain her speech almost fully and most of the use of her right side. There will be some residual paralysis that will never leave--mostly in the facial muscles and her grip strength--but she's really doing far better than any of us had reason to believe possible."

"All right," Dad said. "We'll give it a shot."

"So when is she being discharged?" I asked.

"Saturday," he said.

"But that's only-- "

"Two days from now," Dad finished for me.

"We've already got the equipment you'll need lined up for delivery tomorrow. Can someone be there between nine and noon?"

"I can," I said.

He nodded. "Good. Then let's get it done."

* * * * *

The doorbell rang at nine thirty the next morning.

"Mornin' Tyler," said the smiling, pudgy face of Denny Koss.

"Denny," I said, shaking his hand. "What're you doin' here?"

"Delivery," he said, looking over my shoulder and around the living room. "And you're not ready for it, I can see that right now."

"How much is there?" I said.

"A lot."

He pushed past me into the house.

"We're gonna have to clear a lot of this out," he said, then turned and his face lit up with a cherubic smile. "How you doin', by the way?"

"I'm good, Denny," I smiled back. "It's good to see ya."

"Good to see you, too. You been back for awhile. I know. Seen ya around a couple times."

"Been busy, though," I explained.

"Yeah," he said, his face getting serious. "Tough break with your mom. Great lady."

"Thanks."

He nodded, then spun and picked up one end of the coffee table and nodded for me to get the other end.

"Let's get all this stuff over to the side for now," he said. "Once we get everything in and set up, we'll see what stays and what goes to the basement, okay?"

"You always do this?"

"Nope," he said, lifting his end of the solid walnut table like it was a feather. "But you were my quarterback. Special bond, you know. Between a center and his quarterback. I mean, you felt me up how many times a game for how many games a season?"

He winked, setting the table down. "You learn to get attached to your quarterback."

I laughed. "Well, they were nice feels."

"Yeah," he said, grunting as he lifted his end of the couch. "But you could've bought me dinner or somethin'. But no, just feel me and leave me."

The rest of the moving session went that way, laughing and talking about high school and what we'd done since then. I was amazed, and more than a bit ashamed, to learn that chubby little Denny Koss wasn't just a simple mover. Hell no, he owned the company. He'd insisted on this delivery when he saw the address. And he'd intentionally failed to bring along a helper on the hopes I'd be there to help him and we could bullshit about the old days.

"Why you never show up?" he said as we took a seat and caught our breath upon moving all of the equipment from his truck to the house.

I shrugged. "Been busy, I guess. You know, living in Florida trying to make a go of things there and all."

"So did you?" he asked. "Make a go of it and all?"

"Sure. And all it cost me was my marriage."

"So I guess you got what you wished for, and it bit you in the ass, huh?"

"Hard," I agreed.

"Sucks."

"Yeah."

We spent the next half hour setting up the hospital bed and the gadgets and gizmos associated with physical therapy. Then another hour after that was spent re-arranging the living room furniture and carrying some of it to the basement.

"Well," Denny said, rubbing his hands against his jeans, "this should do for now."

I looked around the room, then nodded.

"Yep, this should do it."

"You know," he said, turning and fixing me with an even stare, "a bunch of us get together on Friday nights. From high school and some people we're all friends with that live here now."

I nodded.

"Anyways," he continued, seeing that I was listening with expectation, "it's at our house tonight. About six thirty or seven. I know they'd all love to see you."

"Kristin ever there?" I said.

"A few times," he nodded, his smile turning grim. "Not much, but sometimes."

I thought about it. We lived in the same town now, knew all the same people. I couldn't let her run me off.

"So what do I bring?" I said.

He grinned. "Appetizer and whatever you're gonna drink."

"Deal," I said, shaking his hand and trying to palm him a hundred in the process.

He shook back in an iron grip, then looked at his hand when the shake broke.

"Not a chance," he said, laying the bill on the hospital bed. "I covered your ass in high school, I'm covering it now."




What You Wish For Pt. 04



"Then take your wife and kids to dinner with it," I suggested. "I mean, I owe you a lot of dinners, right?"

He just laughed. "Not a chance. You're not getting out of all those quick feels for a lousy hundo. I wanna be wined and dined."

We laughed together, and he took off.

* * * * *

I quit writing at six and started getting ready for the party at Denny's house. Forty-five minutes later, dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt, cuffs rolled to mid-forearm, I pulled into Denny's driveway in a newer subdivision on the edge of Grant City. There were already ten or so cars parked in the driveway and along the curbs, and I could hear the laughing and talking from around back as I grabbed a case of Lite and a tray of hummus and pita chips from the back seat.

I was greeted with a chorus of Tylers, Hey Dudes, and Pardners as I turned the corner at the back of the house and walked toward the large deck on which everyone was gathered.

"Hey, Tyler," Denny's tiny little wife Dee Dee said, pecking me on the cheek before taking the tray of hummus from my hand. "Beer goes in the coolers over there."

I nodded. "Thanks for having me."

"Thanks for coming," she said back, looking like she was genuinely pleased at my presence. She'd graduated three or four years behind us, and all I remembered of her was a tiny little kid with short, tomboyish features. She was still tiny--way tinier than Denny, that's for sure--but her features were cute in a pixieish way. She'd definitely grown into a beautiful lady.

"Keep your dick skinners off her," Denny guffawed from a group of guys, interrupting my observations.

I waved him off with a chuckle and proceeded to empty my case of beer into a cooler of ice. Keeping one back and opening it, I took a gulp and went over to Denny and his group.

It was like a high school party, but then it wasn't. Amongst the thirty-five or so people there, some were guys and girls we'd gone to school with, but there were younger and older faces, too. Some I recognized, either by face or name, from growing up in Grant City; a few were from other parts of the country and now called Grant City their home.

We all shot the shit for awhile, getting to know each other again and learning who was married, divorced, had kids, owned businesses, worked for others, and so on. I was there maybe an hour when I heard a familiar voice behind me.

"Hello, Tyler."

I tensed, knowing this was a possibility. Forcing a smile to my face, I turned around.

"Hello, Kristin."

The group I had been speaking with shied away from us and dropped their voices to hurried whispers and darting glances.

"You get to the clinic yet? Give 'em your DNA?"

I shook my head. "Next Friday."

"He's your's," she said, her eyes sad.

My eyes narrowed, not sure what game she was playing now.

"Can we maybe talk for a few minutes?" she said. "Somewhere a little less, uh, public?"

After a moment, I nodded, then turned and walked into the house. We settled on a sofa in the den, closing the door behind us.

"I didn't know," she started, her voice low and her eyes on the floor.

"But you knew it was a possibility."

She nodded.

"And when you suspected, you didn't tell me."

She looked up at me, her stare vacant.

"You ever have dreams?" she said, speaking almost to herself. "Because I used to have them. All the time. And sometimes, if you're lucky, your dreams come true. But then . . . well, then you learn that those dreams aren't really all they're cracked up to be."

She turned and faced me, her eyes focusing in on mine.

"So what was your dream, Kristin? Because I can tell you what mine was."

"Same as your's," she said. "To be with you forever and ever. To have a family. To never have to worry about money or bills or anything. To live in a big house and have a big family."

"Ward and June Cleaver," I said.

She nodded. "Ward and June Cleaver," she agreed.

"And just when we almost had it," I said, "you left me. For him."

She looked back at the floor and mumbled something.

"What?" I said, leaning in closer.

"I said I didn't leave you for him. For Randy. I left you for my dream." She looked up, her eyes pleading with me to understand. "I didn't think I was getting my dream with you. I didn't think we'd ever have the family and the . . . well, everything. I thought you'd just keep working a hundred hours a week and I'd be stuck all alone in that house."

"And when you started coming back here," I prompted.

"Cilla told me I didn't belong in Florida. That you were being selfish, keeping me cooped up in the house all day and holding off on starting a family."

I nodded. I knew her sister had played a part in this.

"And my family," she continued. "Mom and Dad. They told me how much they missed me and how much I needed to start giving them grandbabies and all. We needed to come back."

"You never once suggested we sell out down there and come back here," I said, fighting to keep my voice calm.

"I know. But would you have? Would you've done it?"

I shrugged. "Guess we'll never know now."

We were silent for a few moments, and then I thought of something.

"You know," I said, half to myself, "the second I found out my mom had a stroke and Dad needed help, I sold off and came up here in a flash. So I guess we do know, don't we? If you'd have come to me, I probably would've moved back up here."

She nodded. "That's what I thought."

"Then why?"

She thought for a moment before answering. "I guess I just figured you didn't really love me anymore."

"Based on what?"

"I don't know. You were working so much. You wouldn't listen to me as much, spend more time at home and things."

"And when you got up here," I said, "Randy doted on your every word and movement."

She sighed, which was answer enough.

"And now?" I asked.

"He's already filed for divorce. I got it yesterday."

"Why? I mean, that's jumping the gun a bit, don't you think?"

"He says he feels humiliated. I lied to him. Let him think Ben was his and all. And he told everyone else, people he works with and his friends and family and all. And now he's got to tell them all that Ben's not his. That he's your's."

Again, we sat in silence for a few minutes. I could tell she wanted to say something, but she seemed pensive.

"Go ahead," I said softly. "Ask whatever you want."

She shook her head, and I placed my hand on her's and squeezed.

"Why Allie?" she said. "Was it to get back at me?"

I gave an inward chuckle. "No. Not everything's about you, Kristin." I paused, thinking about why I'd been with Allie. "Well, I guess it's partly about you. 'Why?' you ask? Because she was available. And I was comfortable with her, and attracted to her. Partly, I suppose, because she reminded me a lot of you. But no, I didn't spend time with her to get back at you or hurt you. A year ago? Yeah, that would've been a definite possibility. Now? No."

"And are you going to give her another shot?" she said, her face telling me she hoped not.

"No. I'm pretty sure that ship has sailed."

"Is it because of me? Because she kept my secret?"

"Yes and no. No, it's not because of you. Yes because she should've told me. If she loved me like she said she did, she couldn't keep something like that from me. And I'm pretty sure she'd have taken it to her grave."

"It's not her fault," Kristin protested.

"Yes it is. She made her bed."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Can we ever be friends again, Tyler?"

I thought that over. "I don't know."

"Can you ever forgive me?"

I paused, confused at the signals coming out.

"What are you looking for here, Kristin?"

She looked me in the eyes, trying to smile and failing miserably.

"You thinking about getting back together?"

Her nod was so slight I almost missed it.

My eyes went wide, and I felt my jaw go slack with what she was proposing.

"We're back here," she said. "Back home. And now we've got a little baby boy together. If you can forgive me . . . . Well, I'd listen better. Appreciate you the way I always should have appreciated you."

I felt her hand now squeezing mine in return. The soft, warm skin so familiar on mine, the gentle caress.

"Say something," she whispered. "At least say you'll think about it."

I could only nod.

Okay, timeout here to explain what's going through my addled fucking brain. Two years ago the love of my life ran off with no explanation. She married another guy--a guy she'd been screwing while still married to me--and has a baby. Now I find out, first, that the baby's probably (because I'm not taking her word for it yet) mine and, second, that hubby number two has bolted and she's available again. So now, come to find out she doesn't hate me; she hates herself for leaving, even if her self-hatred is still for only her own misery; and she may want to get back together again.

So what do you do? Do you tell her to fuck off? Easy for you to say is she hadn't been the love of your entire life. Even tougher if you add to that our (probable) child together and forced interaction one way or another for the next seventeen years and the desire to give little Ben a solid family life and proper upbringing.

Do you say yes, I want to get back together? Great. Now I just have to wonder which dream she's going to leave me for next. And wonder, for that matter, if she wants me back because of me or because she's got no better alternatives.

"Tyler?" she said into my ear, her hot breath arousing me and snapping me from my reverie.

"Okay," I mumbled, wanting to get away from her for awhile. "Sure. I'll think about it, okay?"

"Thanks," she said, her face relieved.

There was no triumph there, I noticed. The Kristin of old would've had a look of triumph, pleased with herself at getting her way yet again. That look was gone, though.

Was she genuinely contrite?

"Let's go back out and meet some people I haven't seen in awhile, okay?" I said.

She nodded, then pulled me to my feet and led me back to the deck.

When we got there, I saw Allie talking with a group on the lawn. Our eyes met, then her eyes wandered and saw Kristin holding my hand. Her lips tightened, her eyes again finding mine. Then, in a flash, she turned to respond to something someone in the group said, a smile forcing itself onto her face.

I spent the rest of the evening chatting with old friends and meeting new ones. Kristin didn't exactly hover over me, but she was usually at least nearby. At one point I saw her and Allie whispering back and forth as both shot me glances.

Just what I needed in my life.

Drama.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Dad and I got Mom settled in the next day, both spending hours getting things set where she wanted them and doting over her like a couple of clueless clods, which we were.

Like I said, I'd seen plenty of Mom since the stroke, but it all seemed just so sad now that she was back home. She was a small, frail pile of skin and bones, dressed in a baggy sweatsuit and sitting in her recliner. Fifty-eight years old, but she looked twenty years older now. Her hair was a mess and seemed more gray, her skin was pallid and shrunken, and she could only communicate with halting speech--some of the words slurred and barely recognizable--and pointing with her left hand. Her right arm still lay at her side all but useless.

"Come on," I said once everything was where we wanted it. I took her right arm in my hands and did the stretching, strength, and motor skills exercises we were instructed to do with her.

And that's how the first day back went. The drudgery of exercise and speech practice while listening to the drone of a televised baseball game in the background.

There was one light moment, though, when Dad placed her dinner on the TV tray before her chair.

"What's this?" she said, the words coming out woss thish.

"Dinner," he proclaimed, proud of his accomplishments in the kitchen while she'd been away. "Pot roast with potatoes and carrots."

"Really," she said, coming out willy. The look on her half-paralyzed face told us she didn't believe him.

Having had Dad's pot roast at least once a week for the past few months, I had to agree with her assessment.

So Mom was clearly still sharp as a tack.

* * * * *

On Sunday at eleven, the doorbell rang.

"Kristin?" I said, looking at her standing there holding Ben in one arm and a basket in the other.

"Take him," she said, leaning the toddler into my arms before walking past me and into the house.

"What're you doing-- " Dad started on seeing her.

"I'm sorry about the last time I was here," Kristin cut him off. "Real sorry. And you were right about everything and I know that."

He nodded, shooting glances from her to little Ben squirming in my arms. I gently bounced my hips and held onto him for dear life.

"Anyways," Kristin continued, walking past Dad and into the dining room and through to the kitchen, calling over her shoulder as she went, "they said at church this morning that Sally was getting home today, and I figured she shouldn't be subjected to bad cooking the first day out."

Mom snorted. "Too late."

Dad frowned, staring from the kitchen to Mom to me. Then he focused in on the wriggling little boy in my arms and his features softened.

"Let him down," Dad said, crouching and holding out his arms.

I set Ben down, and he waddled over to Dad.

"Is he?" Mom said, her face going from me to Ben and back again, the look of expectant hope lighting up the left side of her face.

"Your grandson," Kristin confirmed from the doorway, leaning against the doorframe and taking in the scene. Her smile was apprehensive, her body tense waiting for the inevitable barrage of demanding questions.

But none came. Instead, Dad scooped Ben up and carried him to my mother, placing him in her lap. I swear to God, I never thought I'd see her this happy again. Those extra twenty years disappeared just like that.

When I turned around, Kristin had disappeared back into the kitchen.

She froze when she heard my footsteps behind her.

"Thanks," I said. "This is . . . ."

I let the words hang, but she got the picture. Her whole body relaxed and she continued fixing plates for lunch.

"I'm not hungry," I said when she grabbed another plate.

She turned to look at me.

"Really," I said, smiling. "Just not hungry."

"Oh."

She seemed disappointed, like her first try at winning me back wasn't going as well as planned.

"I'll help you feed Ben, though," I said. "After all, now that I've got a son and all, might as well learn how to care for him, right?"

She smiled, pleased at my recovery.

A few minutes later, Dad helped Mom to the dining room table and we all sat for lunch. Kristin sat next to Mom, chatting lightly about Ben and all manner of child rearing joys she'd experienced, occasionally using her napkin to dab at Mom's mouth. She looked like the Kristin I'd fallen in love with, the sweet, charming fifteen-year old who was everyone's favorite.

Dad was eating his fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and gravy, sharing every other forkful with a bouncing and very messy Ben, who was sitting on my lap getting half of the food offered him all over his shirt and my pants.

"Cute," Mom said, looking at Ben and me, her eyes aglow.

Kristin turned and looked at us, and at me trying to wipe smears of potatoes and gravy from my sleeves, and snorted.

"Welcome to fatherhood," she said. Then, with no reaction from anyone else, the laughter left her eyes and she looked sad.

I only smiled in response. "Looks like I've got some catching up to do, huh?"

She tried to smile in response.

"Better late than never," Dad said, picking up his plate and taking it to the sink. "You doin' okay, Ma?"

Mom just nodded, her eyes locked on Ben while she slowly chewed her food.

"Kristin?" he said.

"I'm fine," Kristin said. "Let me get those for you."

She stood and went to the sink, rinsing off the plate and putting it in the dishwasher before tackling the rest of the leftovers. She'd brought enough for at least three meals, and she took her time putting it in the refrigerator and cleaning up the remnants on the counter.

I spent the time wiping off Ben's mouth, then sliding over to the chair next to Mom and whispering in his ear. "Grandma" and "chicken" and "table." Hell, I didn't really know what to say; I just knew Mom stayed bright with him around.

When Kristin finished, she turned and froze. This was way harder for her than I thought it would be. It was written all over her face, there for everyone to see. Regret, sorrow, a mask begging forgiveness and wondering why she'd ever done what she'd done.

She tried to speak, but ended up clearing her throat.

"Gonna get some fresh air," she said, and dashed to the back door and outside.

I looked at Mom and Dad.

"Come on," he said, holding his arms out. "My turn."

I passed Ben over the table and into Dad's massive arms. Standing, I made my way outside and around the house. Kristin was nowhere to be seen, but I smelled cigarette smoke from around the side of the woodshop.

"There you are," I said, turning the corner.

She was huddled in on herself, sucking hard on a cigarette and trying to keep from crying.

"When did you start this again?" I said.

She looked at the cigarette in her hand.

"Sorry," she said, moving to toss the smoke away.

"No. Go ahead if it settles you down."

She nodded her head a few times, took a deep drag and held it, then started speaking as the smoke came out with her words.

"Just never thought it would all be this hard, ya know? You hadn't come back . . . I'd never have to really see you again, right? Would've made it all a lot easier."

"Never telling me about Ben?"

She shook her head. "No. Not that. Truth be told, I started realizing what a complete mess I made of things when his hair didn't get any darker and his eyes stayed blue. Six or seven months back."

She looked at me, trying to read my reaction. I gave none, preferring to listen. She turned back to stare at the woods abutting our property.

"I never should've done any of it, Tyler," she said, her voice listless. "Any of it. Never should've listened to Mom or to Cilla. Never should've kept coming back up here and dreaming about what I could have. I should've concentrated on working with what I already had. What we already had."

She snorted.

"Something funny?" I asked.

She looked back at me for a second, then back at the woods.

"I traded in loneliness for pure misery." She laughed again, but it was a bitter laugh. "You worshiped the ground I walked on. Randy wanted to screw me. I mistook lust for love. Then, when he found out I was pregnant, he proposed. Still not sure he really loved me, but he certainly loved the idea of having me to come home to every night and having a son and . . . I don't know . . . ."

"What? What don't you know?" I prodded.

"He wasn't you, okay?" she said, the tears she'd been holding back finally letting loose. "He just wasn't you. And all I wanted was you. I'd have left him in a second if I thought there was a chance you'd take me back. I'd have crawled through a thousand miles of mud if I knew you'd take me in your arms when I got there. But it was all too late. I'd already ruined it all. Everything. So I just decided to settle with the dreamworld I'd made up here."

"So why now?" I said. "Is it just because Randy's left?"

"He didn't leave," she said. "I moved out. Me and Ben. The day after you served me with the papers."

That surprised me. "So when you were in court?"

"We'd been separated a month."

"Then why did you . . . what the fuck was that . . . . You contested the DNA testing."

"You're gonna try to take him away from me," she whispered.

I felt my anger rising. "Is that what this is all about now?"




What You Wish For Pt. 04



"No," she sobbed. "That's what it was about in court. But not now, Tyler. That's not why I'm here now. That's not why I'm trying my hardest to show you I've changed."

She looked at me, her face tear streaked, some of her hair plastered to the waterworks on her cheeks.

"You see it, don't you? You know I'm telling you the truth, right?"

"I see a scared little girl," I said. "A scared little girl who's pissed away her life so far, and now she's worried about losing the last thing she's got."

She whipped her head back and forth. "No, Tyler. That's not true. I want us to be friends. Even if you never take me back, I still don't want you to hate me. You can. You have every right to."

I said nothing, kept my mouth clamped tighter than a tick.

"I know all about your book," she pleaded. "I know you've got enough money to bury me in court. To probably take Ben away from me. I know that, Tyler. Allie told me. And she told me it's real good, too. The book. That they think you'll be famous. But I don't want that. I don't want any of it."

She turned away and tried to check her tears, wiping her face with her hands and hiccuping with the effort of controlling her emotions.

"Tyler, you let me keep Ben and I'll never deny you time with him. I don't want any of your money. I'll support him on my own. But I want him to know his father now. I know I was wrong. I know you have no reason to believe me. I know that. But I'm asking you to . . . to give me a chance here."

"And you're sure he's mine."

Kristin sat on the ground, her back against the workshop wall, and huddled her legs in on herself.

"When you moved back to town, I was afraid something like this would happen. So I went online, ordered a DNA kit. I got some of Randy's DNA while he was sleeping, and I took a swab of Ben's, too, and I mailed it in. There's no way Randy's the father." 

She looked up at me, seeing the skepticism on my face.

"You'll understand if I don't trust you on this one," I said.

She just looked at me.

"Who else have you slept with?" I said.

"No one," she replied. "Just you and Randy. My whole life, just the two of you." She gave a sad smile. "Probably why I wasn't so hot in bed like you said. Maybe I should've read more or rented some of those pay per views on the dirty channels, huh?" 

I sat next to her. "Well," I said, staring into the woods, "I may have been exaggerating my case when I said that."

She elbowed me.

"What?"

"Were you? Overstating your case?"

"Well . . . ."

She elbowed me again.

"Okay, maybe a little."

"A little?" she said, turning to look at me.

Even with her red, swollen eyes and tear stained face, that flirtatious tilt of her lips and twinkling in her eyes got me hard instantly.

She noticed, her eyes traveling to my crotch and back to my eyes, her right eyebrow raising a touch.

"Maybe more than a little," I said, adjusting my hard on to the side. "A little more than a little."

"Shit head," she said, pushing me over to my side.

"Hey," I protested. But she just laughed and stood up.

"Come on," she said, walking back to the house, sashaying her ass from side to side as she did so. "Time to get Ben down for a nap."

By the time we got back into the house, though, Ben was already fast asleep, curled on Mom's lap. She was gently stroking his hair while Dad watched from across the room.

Leaving them alone, I went upstairs with Kristin and showed her the new book I was working on. She seemed impressed by the outline, and even more impressed by the story I'd thus far written. A touch of depression hit, though, when she realized the ex-wife character in the story was her.

"You think that's bad," I said, reaching into the box next to my desk and pulling out a manuscript of the first book, "read this. 

We spent the next few hours chatting about old times and laughing about people we knew and just enjoying each other's company.

There was that elephant in the room, though. The elephant I wasn't sure I could ignore.



What You Wish For Pt. 05



Introduction

So what do you think? Will Tyler get back with Kristin? Allie, maybe? Hell, is Susan going to show up?

And what about little Ben? Don't forget him.

This is it, the penultimate chapter. Only one more part to go.

Thanks to all of you who have taken the time to read it and comment.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The doctor was right: Mom's recovery at home was far faster and more dramatic than Dad or I could've imagined. After three weeks, she was walking unaided, though still with a limp, and most of the lisp was gone from her voice. Her speech was still halting to the point you wanted to finish every sentence for her, but it was easy to understand every word out of her mouth.

Most of that, I think, was due to Kristin bringing Ben by every afternoon. At first, I'm pretty sure Kristin intended to use that as an excuse to spend time with me. I was busy writing, though, and could only spare an hour or so during the afternoon to play around with Ben on the floor or feed him lunch or just watch him take a nap with Mom. Once he was down for his nap, I returned to my writing and tried to get the second book done. Then I'd go back down and spend another hour before dinner with my son, and back to writing. All told, my sleep was suffering.

Kristin hung around the room a couple days in a row, trying to engage me in conversation. I made it crystal clear that talk was not on the agenda, though, and she quit bothering me.

After the first week of this, Kristin only hung around the first hour or so–the time I was spending with Ben–and came back after dinner to pick him up. She seemed more than content to let Mom and Dad have their time with him, the time she'd robbed us of, and I was spending two or three hours a day with my son while Mom and Dad spent the rest of the afternoon with him.

You may have noticed I called Ben my son just now. Well, that's because the DNA test came back only five days after I submitted my saliva. He was mine, to the exclusion of all men on Planet Earth and even a few other planets thrown in.

That made the rest of my lawsuit against Kristin perfunctory.

And it was all taken care of around James McNally's conference table.

* * * * *

"All right," McNally started, "I've prepared a pretty simple agenda for this little settlement conference."

He passed out a piece of paper to each of us and I read it. He was right: It was simple. One - Custody. Two - Support. Three - Visitation. There was ample space on the nearly empty page to make notes on each subject.

"Jammer," Petrowski said, "we really aren't ready to discuss all of this and you know it. We don't even have Mr. Collins's full financial disclosures. And he's got a book coming out now."

"I know that, Sandy," he said. "But we can at least get the outlines started and then you can tell me what else you need."

"That won't be necessary," Kristin cut in, looking at me.

"Kristin," Petrowski said, her chubby little face reddening.

"No," Kristin said, leaning over the table and stretching her hand across, reaching for me to take it.

Not knowing where this was going, I reached across and took her hand, holding it loosely.

"I wasn't kidding on what I said that day," she said, her voice low, her hand squeezing mine nearly to death. "I'm sorry. I know I had no right to keep him from you. It didn't start out that way–I didn't really know he was your's, or even suspect it, until he was five or six months old–but I have no excuse for not telling you or at least doing something when I found out."

I stared at her, frozen. Her jaw was set, though, like she was trying to hold it all together and not lose it before saying what she needed to say.

"You have every right to seek custody of Ben," she continued. "And I know you have a really good shot at getting that. But I'm asking you not to do that, Tyler. Please. For Ben's sake, don't do it."

"Then what're you offering?" McNally said, his voice soft and encouraging.

"We're thinking– " Petrowski tried to interject before Kristin cut her off.

"If you want custody," Kristin said, "I won't challenge it. Just be generous with visitation. Don't keep my son from me. Our son."

She was fighting to hold back her emotions, but her steely determination told me the offer was genuine. And now I had something to think about, and about ten seconds to make my decision.

It took nearly a minute before I made up my mind, which had Kristin ready to explode.

"Joint custody," I said. "You can be the residential parent, Kristin. I'm not going to take Ben from you. But I want generous visitation."

She nodded, brushing the tears away that were now spilling down her cheeks.

"Okay," Petrowski said, her relief evident, "then what about child support?"

"I don't want any," Kristin said. "Tyler will do what's right."

I shook my head. "Two fifty a week. And I'll pay for health insurance and medical expenses and set up his college fund."

"I don't want your money," Kristin said. "I can– "

"That's not nearly enough," Ms. Petrowski interjected, turning to McNally. "You know that's a fraction of what the courts will give her."

"Not a dime," Kristin said.

"I'm going to have to insist," I said, ignoring the lawyers and smiling at Kristin. "I'm not going to have our son living like a pauper because you feel guilty for being such a shit."

"Okay," Kristin sniffled, half laughing, half crying as her tears subsided. "Thanks."

"Visitation?" McNally said.

"Generous," I said.

"I think what we have going now is working well," Kristin said. "And I want to expand it."

"But I already see him every day," I said. "You've got to see him some time, don't you?"

"I'm starting a job at the semester break," she said. "Teaching at the grade school. One of the teachers is going on maternity leave, and they've offered me a contract. So I'm hoping you and your folks can watch him for me."

"You're going to be working?" I said, more surprised at that than at the visitation proposal.

She nodded, smiling. "I know. Too little too late. But better late than ever, right?"

I was shocked. She was trying. She was walking the walk, not just talking the talk.

"Holidays and weekends?" McNally said.

"We'll work something out," I said. "Just write something up for us to look at, and we can get this done."

"Kristin," Petrowski cut in, terrified as she watched her ship sinking, "you've got to think about this. You're giving up a lot here."

Kristin looked at her, a sad and patient look on her face. "I've already thought about it, Sandy. A lot. I'm doing what's right for Tyler and Ben. I'll get by, and I'm not going to take Tyler to the cleaners to do it. I need to stand on my own two feet."

Kristin turned to look at me, and I was trying to hold back tears of both joy at getting to see Ben every day and sorrow at seeing how much Kristin had changed after the fall of both of her marriages.

"Tyler would never screw me," she said, speaking to Petrowski but looking me dead in the eye. Then her eyes twinkled and she spoke to me. "As much as I may hope otherwise."

I only smiled.

* * * * *

I phoned Marisa that night. It was late, nearly eleven thirty, but she answered awake and alert on the first ring.

"Yes," she said.

"Hello," I said in response.

"Fine. Hello. What're you calling for?"

"I want to take you to lunch," I said. "Tomorrow."

"Why?"

"Because of you, I now have a son that I'm getting to know."

She was silent.

"Well?" I prodded.

"You don't owe me anything," she said, her voice so low I barely heard the words.

"But I do. A lot more than just lunch, really."

She was silent again, and I was ready to speak when she finally said something.

"You want I should just come out there?"

"I've got a photo shoot in the morning," I said. "Somewhere in Lincoln Park. For the book cover. I'm gonna be there anyway. And, well, since I'm there and all, and since this is the least I can do."

"About one?" she said.

"Sounds perfect."

"Where do you want to meet?"

"I'll pick you up," I said.

"That's– "

"I already have your address in my GPS," I said. "Got it from Susan. So really, it's no bother."

"All right," she said. "See you then."

* * * * *

At ten to one, I pulled up, and she was waiting on the curb for me.

Marisa hadn't changed since we'd last met. Still had a huge, impossibly spiked head of black hair, black eyeliner and lipstick, black clothes. She had allowed for the autumn chill with a jean jacket, though.

"Where you in the mood for?" I asked, opening her door for her before scurrying around to my side and getting in before getting ticketed for double parking.

"Whatever," she said.

"You're gonna have to help me," I said, concentrating on the narrow street piled with cars on both sides. "Not my neck of the woods."

"Turn right up ahead," was all she said.

Five minutes later, we pulled up outside a place on Halsted Street. Café Ba Ba Reeba! it said on the big sign. And thank God they had valet parking.

It was a Spanish tapas restaurant, the kind I'd only been to a few times in the past. Being clueless, I let Marisa do the ordering, and she did well. Small plates of grilled octopus, garlicky potato salad, goat cheese in a light tomato sauce with grilled bread to spread it on. The piles of appetizers just kept coming and coming.

All told, it was great and there was enough to feed an army.

Marisa, of course, loved it all, demolishing every bite on every plate with gusto. I'd have a bite or two, she'd polish it off. And so it went for an hour.

We spent the time catching up. School was going well for her, and she was actually starting an outline for a novel.

"An idea that popped up while I was working with you," she said cryptically, then said no more.

Instead, she steered the conversation around to me and the book and the photo shoot for the book cover I'd endured that morning.

"Do you really think that's appropriate?" a voice screeched from behind us as our meal neared the end.

I turned to see two seventy somethings with blue hair and doddering, glaring husbands standing near our table on their way out. They were staring with hoity toity distaste at Marisa in her outfit.

"Have we done something to offend you?" I said.

The look they gave me was like they'd just stepped in a pile of dog shit.

"This is a nice restaurant," one of the men said, looking at Marisa with his nose twitching.

"And I would've expected the patrons here to have better manners," I shot back. "Apparently that's not something they check at the door, though."

The ladies gasped, the men glared, and Marisa snorted.

"If it would help," I continued, "we can try to do something a little more inappropriate to offend you some more. Like interrupt your private luncheon with our snotty ass attitudes, for example?"

Marisa was covering her mouth with her napkin now, trying to keep her food in her mouth. The crew of oldsters harrumphed and put on expensive coats and silk scarves and stomped their way to the door. They managed to stop at the receptionist's station and say some hot words, I noticed.

"I'm sorry," Marisa said when I turned back to resume our conversation.

"About what?"

She resumed the meal, now quiet and sullen.

"Will there be anything else?" the waitress said, appearing as if by magic. Her looks told me she hoped there wouldn't be, which only got my dander up.

"Is there a problem?"

She shot a look at the manager now standing next to the receptionist, then back to me, pleading with every ounce of her energy.

"I'd like a cup of espresso," I said. "And my guest will have something for dessert."

Marisa started to protest, her face telling me she just wanted to leave.

"You pick the dessert," I said to the waitress. "And a glass of wine that will go with it, if you don't mind."

"Why are you doing this?" Marisa said as the waitress left.

"Because," I said. "Because I'm happy to be with you and I'm enjoying myself and I'm not going to let a bunch of old bastards ruin our lunch."

She nodded, her face softening.

And she destroyed the dessert they brought her, too.

* * * * *

And so the next two months went. Work in the shop in the morning, see Ben for an hour or two a day between writing until eleven or midnight, get up, repeat cycle.

Kristin was still trying to spend time with me, showing interest in my every movement. I appreciated her efforts, but just wasn't sure I could ever love her again.

The newest novel, which I had yet to come up with a title for, was coming along great and I was nearly finished with the first draft. With all the shit that had happened to me since the first one was written, this one was, if anything, even darker than the original.

"Tyler?" Kristin said, looking up from the screen after reading the outline.

"Yeah."

"You still hate me, don't you?"

"Where's that coming from?"

"This book. There's a lot of anger in it."

I looked at her, not quite sure how to respond.

The silence grew, then she came over to the chair I was sitting in, leaned over, and kissed me on the lips. Not a romantic kiss with deep probing tongues and all that, but not a chaste kiss, either.

"I'm more sorry than you'll ever know," she said.

I tried to smile, and she took this opportunity to sit in my lap and put her arms around me. If my folks hadn't been downstairs with Ben–and if it hadn't been so long since I'd had any female contact of any kind–I'd have jumped or pushed her off or something. But I didn't.

"I know I ruined it," she said, looking into my eyes. "I know that. And I hate myself for it. I've been hating myself for quite some time, tell you the truth."

"Then why?"

"Because I was a spoiled rotten little bitch and you wouldn't toe the line," she said.

"I tried. You know that, right? I thought that was what you wanted. You just wouldn't meet me halfway."

She nodded. "I know, Tyler. It wasn't you. It was never you. You've got to believe that."

"Still," I said, absentmindedly stroking the soft skin of her arms as she held me.

"Yeah," she murmured. "But it wasn't because he was better than you. He represented something better. Something I thought at the time was better. But I never wanted anyone else but you."

I was so focused on her words I didn't even notice the increasing pressure on my hard on as she started swaying her hips against me.

"You can hate me," she said, her voice softening. "I understand that. I would hate you, too. I did hate you, actually. When you were with Allie."

"That had nothing to do with– "

"I know. Still, she told me how good you were. In more graphic detail than I cared to hear. And all it did was make me cry that I used to have you."

"Try being on my end of it," I said, feeling my hips now grinding back against her pelvis. "I was the one that got dumped. Then I find out you were with him before we were . . . while you were still with me. Living with me. Not even separated, let alone divorced."

She nodded, biting her lower lip and grinding her pelvis down against me more urgently. She was close to cumming. I'd seen this look a million times, and I knew she was close.

"What're you doing?" I said, my voice little more than a hoarse whisper.

"You hate me," she said. "I want you to take it out on me. To . . . I . . . ."

She shuddered, fighting to keep her eyes open as she orgasmed, her gaze blazing into mine as her chin lifted and her body tightened.

"Then what was that?"

"It's been so long," she said. "Please?"

I was hard as a rock, my cock straining for release.

"You want me to take it out on you, to punish you, and you just got off on me? And I'm still sitting here listening to you?"

Guilt swept her features, her eyes dropping.

"And we're supposed to do this when?" I demanded. "After you've had two or three more orgasms for punishment?"

"I'm sorry," she said.

"You're gonna be sorry," I said, standing, spinning, and dumping her in the chair. I strode to the door, locked it, and returned to the chair.

"Suck it," I said, standing in front of her.

She looked up at me, her face now unsure.

"You said you wanted me to take it out on you? Well you've got me all fucking worked up now, so do something about it."

Her fingers trembled as she reached toward my zipper, slowly unbuttoning my pants before pulling down the zipper.

"Just a minute ago you were all hot and bothered to get me going," I whispered. "Why the hesitation."

She looked up and there were tears welling up in her eyes.

"I . . . you . . . I didn't mean– "

"I thought so," I said, stepping back and getting my pants zipped and buttoned again.

After a few minutes of silence, Kristin spoke.

"You've changed so much."

"You ripped out my heart and stomped that sucker flat, Kristin. What did you expect? Gratitude?"

"Not all this anger," she said.

"I'm not angry," I said. "I just think you're playing games with me. Games I don't have the time or the heart to play."

She started to speak a couple of times, but stopped herself. I was content to wait her out. Until about the sixth time, that is. Then my patience snapped.

"Just say it, will you?"

"I'm sorry," she said. "About a few minutes ago and all. It's just that . . . well . . . I've been thinking about it."

"About what?"

"You know. Kind of a friends with benefits kind of thing? I want to be with you, spend time with you. And if that's the only way I can, then so be it."

I shook my head. "I did enough of that when we divorced. Enough to last me a lifetime."

"Then a date?" she suggested.

"Let me think about it."

"But you've been thinking about it," she said. "You've been thinking about it for a couple of months. And every time I bring it up, you just say you'll think about it."

"Do you want my immediate answer?" I said.

Her lips tightened at the look on my face and the tone in my voice.

"Do you ever think you'll say yes? Not to taking me back. Just to giving me a chance? A chance to prove how much I love you and how much I'm willing to do to make it up to you?"

"I don't know, Kristin," I sighed. "I honestly don't know."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

In early November, I got a phone call from Natalie.

"Two weeks tomorrow," she rasped.

"What's two weeks from tomorrow?" I said.

"The party to celebrate the release of your first Great American Novel."

"It's a mystery thriller," I corrected her.

"Oh don't be modest," she cooed, coughing at the end. "It's brilliant, and we've got four famous authors to agree with us on that."

"Really," I said, surprised that the ploy of sending out advances for comments had worked. "Who read it?"

"James Patterson, Tammi Hoag, Dennis Lehane, and, get ready for this, Stephen King."

"Stephen King?"

"Yeah," she said, as surprised and awed as I was. "He usually doesn't comment on much, but he really liked this one. To the point where he's maybe gonna be at the party."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Then what do you need from me?"

"New suit," she said. "And be at the party on the sixteenth looking like an author. And being really nice to the publishers and everyone else."

"Okay," I said, then thought of something. "Who else is gonna be there? From our group?"

"Well, I'll be there of course. And Susan. I figured you'd want her there."

"Of course," I said. "And Marisa?"

"Marisa?" she said, her voice getting wary. "You sure?"

"She's really the one who deserves the credit," I said. "You know that. She's the one who got you to look at it–at me–and her editing was . . . well, it's a way better book."

"Okay," she said slowly. "I'll see what we can do."

"You don't sound so sure," I said.

"Don't get me wrong," she said. "I mean, a few people know of her. It's just that . . . you know."




What You Wish For Pt. 05



"None of them have ever seen her face to face?"

"Something like that."

"Well she's coming," I insisted. "If I have to drag her there kicking and screaming. It'll give her some exposure, maybe help her make some connections."

Natalie sighed. "It's your party."

"I'll take care of it myself," I said. "You don't worry. I'll take care of everything. You just make sure they don't throw us out when we get there, okay?"

"You're the boss," she said, and rang off.

* * * * *

The next day at nearly noon, a FedEx driver pulled into the driveway and hauled a big, heavy box to the front door.

"Tyler Collins?" he said.

"That's me," I said.

"Sign here," he said, turning his electronic delivery pad upside down.

I scrawled my signature, then carried the box inside.

It was twenty copies of Long Gone.

My first book.

* * * * *

I immediately quit writing for the day, then drove into Chicago to get three new suits with all the accompanying shirts, ties, socks, belts, and such. It set me back eight grand, but I was not going to look like a hayseed in the blinding lights of the New York literati scene.

My repeated calls to Marisa's apartment had gone unanswered, and I didn't bother leaving a message. Instead, by five thirty, I was camped out on the stoop of her apartment building.

I was nearly frozen and ready to give up by ten thirty when I saw the familiar, long legged gait walking up the block toward me. She was with someone, and they came to a halt at the stoop.

"Tyler Collins," she said.

The tall, skinny kid with her had greasy hair, tight fitting jeans, and three earrings in each ear. He looked like a smack-addicted lead guitarist for a punk rock band. He had a bottle of cheap wine in one hand and a cigarette burning in the other.

"I tried calling," I said.

"I've been out," she said. 

"I just need a few minutes."

She turned to the guy with her. "Get lost."

"But– "

"Now," she said, staring him down.

He shot me a dirty look, then did what she said.

"Hope you've got something to drink with you," she said. "He just took my evening's entertainment with him."

"C'mon," I said. "We'll go get a drink."

"Nah," she replied, turning and walking back the way she came. "There's a liquor store on the corner. You're buying."

I hurried after her, and ten minutes later she was letting us into her apartment, wine in hand. I bought her two bottles to make up for ruining her date.

"Sorry 'bout the interruption," I said, shedding my coat and standing against the radiator to warm my ass and legs.

"You should be," she said, her back to me as she reached up and pulled out two jelly jar glasses for the wine. "I haven't been laid in months."

"I brought you a present," I said, reaching into my overcoat and pulling it out.

She turned, carrying the glasses and wine bottle into the impeccably neat living room area of her loft apartment. She looked into my outstretched hand as she passed, setting the bottle and glasses down.

"Sit," she ordered, pouring the glasses to the brim.

I obeyed, holding the book out to her.

"Mine?"

I nodded.

She opened it. "To Marisa," I'd written on the inside cover. "A million thank yous can never repay all you've done to help my dream come true. With incredibly sincerity and appreciation, Love, Tyler Collins."

"Very nice, Tyler Collins," she said after reading it.

"You didn't see it all," I said, picking up the book and flipping to the dedication page before handing it back to her.

"With heartfelt gratitude and great affection," I whispered as her eyes read it. "This book is dedicated to the most incredible sisters on Planet Earth. For Marisa Key and Susan Karapova."

"You're a friggin' sap," she said, flipping the book shut and placing it on the coffee table between us.

"Guilty," I said. "But I meant every word of it."

She just looked at me, sipping her wine then gulping it down in one fell swoop.

"Okay," she said. "Then let's have a little party, shall we?"

She got up and turned on the sound system. John Coltrane was playing a sax line seeped in melancholy.

"It's good," she said, sitting back down and refilling her glass.

"There's more," I said, taking a sip of wine.

"It gets better?"

"They're having the publication party in a couple of weeks. In Manhattan. And the publishers and probably a lot of authors are gonna be there. Maybe even Stephen King."

"Stephen King?" she snorted. "Now there's someone who could use a better editor. Jesus, his early stuff was so good. So promising. Now it's diarrhea of the word processor."

"Still," I said, "it would give you a great chance to meet a lot of really big people."

Her eyes narrowed as she took in my meaning.

"I'm paying," I said. "It's the least I can do. Not just for the book. For helping me get it published, for editing." I took a sip of wine. "For my son."

She stared at me for a minute, then started laughing.

"I'm serious," I said.

"I know you're serious," she said. "That's what's so pathetic about it. I mean, c'mon, can you picture me there? With Stephen King? Maybe John Updike? Get real, Tyler."

I slammed my glass down, startling her for the first time since I'd known her.

"What the fuck are you afraid of? Huh? You worried that if you meet these people–maybe make a good impression–you think you'll actually have to join society? This is good for you. For your career. And you laugh at me? You won't let me even try to repay you for all you've done for me?"

She said nothing, preferring to fix me with a fiery stare as she drank her second glass of wine in one fell swoop.

"That's a good idea," I said, picking up the bottle of wine and holding it toward her. "Get drunk. Dodge your big chance."

She let me refill her glass, but took only a sip before setting it down. Then she got up and went to the window, staring outside while John Coltrane's sax managed to set the mood in the dim apartment.

"Okay," I heard her say. "I'll go."

I got up and walked to the window.

"And you'll have fun and try to meet people and be nice?" I said, standing next to her and looking down at the dark street below.

"I'll try."

"And you'll celebrate the publication of our book with me?"

"It's your book," she mumbled.

I took her by the shoulders, feeling her tense up under my hands as I spun her to face me.

"It's our book. I never could've done it without you, and it would've been a piece of shit without you fixing it."

Her eyes stared into mine. Those beautiful, deep, dark eyes with the Asian flair.

Then her face neared mine, and her impossibly silky, pillowy lips were on mine. Soft and gentle at first, then with more urgency as her tongue sought mine and her hand went to my neck and pulled me in closer.

I was slow at first, surprised and taken aback. I'd never thought of kissing her, let alone dreamed she'd be the one to initiate anything. Yet, here I was, feeling her body meld against mine, her urgency conveyed as her breasts pressed against my chest and her other hand went to my ass and pulled me in closer to her pelvis.

Without conscious thought, I was kissing her back and running my hands over her back and through her hair and over her sides. We were, both of us, hungry for each other in a way I'd never experienced. It was frantic, helpless, swept in a tide of suppressed desires I only now realized I'd long felt for her. It had always been there: That something that just made me want to screw her silly.

When her hands went to my pants, tugging my shirt out before unbuckling my belt and fumbling with my button and zipper, I knew she wanted this to go the whole way. I knew, too, that I suddenly wanted this more than anything in the world, and my fingers felt around her back for the zipper to her skirt.

Within seconds, we were clad only in shirts and underwear, my socks and her pantyhose pulled off and flung to the far reaches of the room. My hand was up the back of her t-shirt, trying to unclasp her bra, and she was fumbling with the buttons on my shirt.

And the whole time we kissed. Our lips mashed and tongues dueled; she sucked in my earlobe and blew in my ear and I kissed up and down her neck to the hollow at the base and back up again.

Then, her bra loosened, I snuck a hand back around front and squeezed her breast. She moaned into my ear, then pinched my nipple, causing me to yip into her neck. But this just increased our need.

I stepped back for a minute, drinking in the sight of her as I pulled my shirt off.

"Those, too," she said, watching me with blazing eyes.

I pulled off my underwear, and her look got all the more feral with hunger.

"Your turn," I said, reaching out and pulling her t-shirt above her head to reveal a perfectly flat tummy softly toned with muscle. There was the trace of a tattoo–a comet with little glitters of comet dust trailing–starting above her left hipbone with the tail of the comet trailing away to the middle of her underwear.

She shrugged off the black lace bra, giving me only a brief glimpse of two perfectly shaped breasts with tiny, dark areolae and jutting nipples. Then she was pressed back into me, pushing me back against the couch.

I fell onto the couch with our mouths still together, then I felt her break away from me.

She took a few steps back, looking down at me, hesitating for a moment. I tried to reach out for her, to pull her back in, and that seemed to make whatever decision she was contemplating. She gave a triumphant smile, then slowly pulled her panties to her ankles.

Standing before me, tall, sleek, and exotic, she was the most incredibly sexual creature I'd seen in my life. Her breasts, perfectly shaped and seemingly huge on her lithe figure, her taut muscles, her long, smooth legs meeting at a shaved juncture accentuated only by a narrow strip of fine, silky black hair. From that strip arose the tail of the comet tattoo, which only added to her exotic beauty.

Then she was back, hovering over me, guiding me into her incredibly hot and impossibly tight inferno.

Her mouth was back on mine, and I kissed through her muffled moan as she sank onto me inch by inch. When I finally bottomed out, doubting for a moment or two that I'd get all the way in, she rested there before starting a slow back and forth grind of her hips.

My hands were feeling her, squeezing her breasts and pinching her nipples, kneading her perfect ass and enjoying the silky smooth skin of her back. Yet, our lips remained locked together, our hunger for each other's kisses unabated as her rocking on my cock increased until she was moving up and down faster and faster and she was crashing in orgasm.

Even in her orgasm, we continued our kisses, her's becoming little nips.

We only broke our kiss when I neared release.

"I'm getting close," I warned.

At that, her hips moved with blinding speed, urging me on as her lips again sought mine.

With a long groan, I exploded into her, and she had another orgasm of her own, though smaller than the first.

Then we just held each other, her head on my shoulder and my hands stroking her hair as my cock softened inside her.

"Okay," she said after ten minutes or so. "I'll try to behave myself at your party."

Then she disentangled and her lips started moving down my chest, paying attention to my nipples while her fingertips grazed my cock and balls.

"Think we can play again?" she said. Then she engulfed me in her mouth.

Twenty minutes of mutual oral ministrations later, we played again.

And it was good.

Really good.

Fucking amazing, actually.

* * * * *

I spent the night at Marisa's, spooning into her warm soft body and sleeping like a baby. I awoke early, somewhere around five thirty, to the sound of a shower.

Getting out of bed, I tiptoed silently to the corner of the room and into the bathroom.

"That you?" she said when I opened the door.

"Expecting someone else?"

"Done in a minute," she said.

"Wait a sec," I said, quickly taking a leak before going to the shower and sliding back the curtain.

"Good morning," I said.

"Morning," she said, her eyes closed as she rinsed the shampoo from her hair.

Even having seen her fully naked scant hours before, the site of her wet, glistening body before me still took my breath away.

"At ease, soldier," she said, her eyes on my growing appendage.

"Sorry."

She smiled. "Don't be."

I stepped into the shower with her. While I could tell you we spent the next half hour having wet, sensuous monkey sex, that would be a lie. Instead, she stepped out only seconds after I got in, and I quickly scrubbed up and joined her within ten minutes in the kitchen area, both of us fully dressed with wet hair.

We sat at the table, sipping strong, scalding coffee, neither of us wanting to speak.

"So about last night," she started after nearly five minutes.

"What about it?"

"Just don't go thinking you'll get a repeat performance is all," she said, her eyes on the cup in her hands. "It's just . . . well . . . been awhile, y'know?"

"For me, too," I agreed, staring at her and meeting her eyes as she raised her head. There was a flash of anger there, and I smiled.

"Still," I continued, "that's not why it happened. At least not on my part anyways."

"Really," she said, her voice cool.

I leaned across the table. "I'm not saying I love you. Hell, I don't even know how much I really like you."

"Then what are you saying?"

"That I see something there. Something in you that really interests me. A lot. And I want to get to know you better."

She harrumphed. "Seems you got to know me pretty well last night."

"And, to be honest, I sort of regret that."

"Why?" she demanded. "Not what you expected."

"Better actually."

"Then what's so wrong with last night?"

"Because now you'll think I'm trying to get to know you better so you'll give me a repeat of last night. And that's not why I want to know you better."

"I don't date," she said, her voice soft with a twinge of something. Regret? Insistence? I couldn't tell.

"Then we won't date," I said.

"Just fuck buddies?" she challenged.

I shook my head. "Friends."

"I have enough friends already."

"So what's one more? You really so popular you can't fit me into your busy schedule?"

She sipped her coffee, staring at me as she did so. 

"You don't even know me," she said.

"That's the point. I want to get to know you."

"We're nothing alike," she argued, getting up and refreshing her coffee before refreshing mine. "You're . . . ." She looked me up and down, her right eyebrow raised.

"What?"

"A fucking yuppie."

"So it comes down to clothing?"

She shook her head. "It's more than that and you know it."

"Really? Like because I wear jeans and dress shirts and you dress like a, like a . . . well, like you do, then that means we can't find out more about each other? Maybe spend some time together? Dinner or drinks or something?"

"You saw what happened when we went out to lunch. People look past you. They focus on me. And they think I'm a freak."

"Then why do you do it?" I asked. "You know how they look at you, so why do you dress like that?"

"Because it's none of their fucking business," Marisa said, her voice rising. "I want them to look at me for me, not for how I dress."

"And yet here I am, asking to do just that, and you're refusing. So again: Why?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

She glared at me in response, clamming up.

"Fine," I said. "Then I'll call Susan. You know she'll tell me."

"Leave her out of this."

"Not gonna happen."

"You have no right, Tyler."

"I know," I said, my eyes meeting her's. "Call me selfish. Call me a prick. But I'm gonna find out what makes you tick. One way or the other, I'm gonna find out."

"You don't know what it's like," she pleaded. "I've seen you. The way everyone back in that little hicksville town looks at you. You were handsome. Popular. The golden boy. I was none of those things."

"What? Growing up?"

"Growing up. High school. College. I was a freak. The tall weirdo with no friends, no money, and no chance of getting either."

"And so you decided to– "

"I decided to become my own person. I tried it their way, but it got me nowhere. Now I'm doing it my way, okay? And it's going just fine."

"Oh really," I shot back. "Bringing home some scrawny piece of shit every month or so to get laid, refusing to form any attachments or friendships. That's working out just fine?"

"Fuck 'em," she said, slamming her cup on the table and spilling it all over her hands and the table. "And fuck you, too."

She glared, her face on fire with anger and resentment and a million other emotions I couldn't really read. I didn't blink under her gaze.

"I like you just the way you are," I said, reaching across the table. "I don't care if you change one bit."

"Yeah, right. Say that in two weeks. Say that when you and I go to your precious little party and they all look at me like I'm some kind of goddamned monster. And you're a fucking nut job because you're with me."

"I don't care about them."

"You say that now, but you will. You will care about them. About what they think. And what your parents think and your friends and everyone else."

Her voice was pleading now. She was convincing herself that I was no different than the others.

"Then try me," I said. "What've you got to lose? The worse that'll happen is we'll spend some time together and then it'll all burn out. And you'll be in the same place you are now."

"But I don't want that again," she pleaded. "Don't you see that? How many times do I have to get rejected by someone–by everyone–before I'm allowed to just quit trying to make everyone happy? How much pain do you think I should go through? How many times do I need to be treated like something someone stepped in?"

"I'll never treat you like that," I promised. "No matter what happens, I know I'll never treat you like that."

"They all say that. At the beginning, that's what everyone promises. But then they do."

"So what's the alternative? Go through life in a series of one night flings and die old, alone, no one to talk to?"

"Or get treated like shit for the next fifty years," she shot back. "There's a better alternative."

I sat back, sipped my coffee, and looked at her. Marisa was almost frantic in her pleas for me to just let it be. There was something there, something more. A kindness. Loyalty even. She'd read my book–a book by a no name nobody–and seen something. And for me, a total stranger, she'd given up weeks of her life to help. She could say it was because she just wanted to see the book published or because it was good for her career. If that were the case though, she didn't have to work as hard as she had.

No, she cared about people and about acceptance. She just wanted that acceptance on her own terms.

"I want to take you to dinner," I said. "You pick the place. Wherever you're comfortable. Dress how you like. I don't care. I just want to take you to dinner."

Her shoulders collapsed at the realization that I wasn't going to give up. Her face dropped to the table, like all the fight was gone.

"Okay," she finally whispered.

I got up and went around the table, kneeling at her side. I cupped her chin in my hands and turned her face to mine, staring into her dark chocolate eyes.

"We can go as far as you want," I said. "You just wanna be friends? Fine. You wanna maybe see if there's more there? Then that's fine, too. Your pace, your choice. Okay?"

She nodded her chin in my hand.

"But I promise," I continued. "From the bottom of my heart. I already know you and I've known you long enough to know what I'm getting myself into. So I promise I won't throw you away, okay?"

Her lips tightened and her eyes blinked a few times, like she was trying to hold back tears. Then she put her arms around my neck and pulled me in for a hug.




What You Wish For Pt. 05



"Okay," she said. "Just remember you promised."