Just Her Type

by Laudat, Reon

  “Absolutely on the table.”

  “Hey!” Kendra plucked at his faded T-shirt as if she just noticed it. “I wore my Love Nest Ninjas T-shirt, too, for luck. It’s under this sweater. Spooky synchronicity intact.” She looked around him and pointed to the enormous crossbow leaning against a wall. “Hey, cool! New piece of art?”

  “No comment,” he said dryly.

  They shared a long kiss, ushering in a fresh start.

  When they parted, Kendra sniffed. “What’s that smell?”

  “The pizza!” Dominic rushed to the kitchen with Kendra on his heel. The smoke detector sounded. He turned off the oven, the alarm, and then reached for the phone to contact his security monitoring service.

  Kendra removed colorful squares from her coat pocket and shoved two at him.

  “What are these?” he said after ending his call.

  “Potholders.” Kendra patted her bulging pockets.

  “So you dole them out like business cards?”

  “I’ve made so many. And it’s Christmastime! I gave some to the guy who runs the taco truck near my apartment building, two nuns on the subway on my way over here, and three teen boys I just saw outside. They looked at me as if I’d sprouted two heads. You get a potholder! And you get a potholder! And you get potholder!” she aped Oprah and laughed.

  How Dominic had mourned the loss of their silly fun.

  As Dominic removed the charred pizza from the oven and dropped it on the stove top, he took a closer look at her handiwork. “So you made these?”

  “I did.” Kendra beamed.

  “Nice work.” He meant that as he admired the orderly stitches.

  “Much better than that heinous sweater, huh?”

  “Hey, watch it. I love that sweater.” Dominic put the potholders aside and moved until he had her back in his arms. “Damn, how I’ve missed you. Missed us, like this.” He nipped at her lips.

  “And I missed your cornucopia of corn, among other things,” she said between kisses echoing through the room. “I ruined your dinner.”

  “Not your fault I was too distracted to set the timer.” More smooches.

  “You were obviously hungry,” she said of the incinerated pizza. “Look at the size of that thing.”

  “Yeah, I am very hungry,” he whispered, easing her hand downward. “Feel the size of this thing.”

  “Oh, my.” She stroked his hardness as Dominic slipped his tongue inside her eager mouth. He parted her coat and clutched to her bottom for a decadent grind against her hips.

  Kendra wrapped her hands around his neck and moaned, almost surrendering to the kiss. “Hey!” Her eyes snapped open. “What about your pitch slam?”

  “What about it?” he asked, keeping her in his arms.

  “I have one more. A man and a woman rekindle their romance, engage in their most hedonistic fantasies, and take their love and devotion to one another to startlingly new heights, one day at a time.”

  “Epilogue?”

  “Happily ever after. Duh.”

  Dominic grinned. “Oh, so you believe in those?”

  “I do. Because of you. My one and only.”

  “Hmmm. What about that all-important black moment?”

  “In the past,” Kendra purred and tugged him toward the stairs leading to his bedroom. “But there’s plenty of action.”

  “Oh, yeah? Sold.”

  The End

  If you enjoyed Dominic and Kendra, check out Mitch and Jaimie. Here’s an excerpt from The Flirtationship.

  Chapter 1

  Jaimie MacKenzie wheeled her weathered Ford Focus onto Shangri-La’s driveway, half expecting to see naked people dotting the surrounding green.

  Instead, a smattering of birds, squirrels, and insects reveled in the warmth of a late-May morning. Her car crawled ahead as her heart rate accelerated. Nestled on acres of virgin forest and verdant meadow, Shangri-La Naturist Retreat appeared to be a world unto itself. A half-mile and a lush row of Ohio Buckeyes separated its vine-threaded entrance from Interstate-275 and the rest of civilization.

  Jaimie was going in—until reality drop-kicked her square in the gut: she might have to get naked!

  After the forty-minute orientation tour, Shangri-La rules required that all visitors strip down if they chose to participate in Shangri-La activities or mingle with Shangri-La guests. The unseasonably hot spring day, reminiscent of July, hardly made dropping trou more appealing. Why couldn’t Reuben Richardson have more conventional pastimes? Golfing, fishing, water-skiing, heck, even big-game hunting, and bungee jumping were preferable to what awaited her beyond the five-foot-high electronic gate encircling Shangri-La. Dread settled in her stomach, but a determination to focus on the positive kept the car rolling forward. Richardson was as good as hers. Maybe she’d timed her arrival just right. With a flick of her wrist, she checked her watch again. Richardson, scheduled to appear at noon, should arrive in exactly...seven minutes. She’d wait five before alerting the staff. That would buy thirty-eight minutes for snooping around fully clothed. That is, if she could ditch her Shangri-La guide.

  At the speaker on the driver’s side of the narrow gravel path, she announced herself and glanced around, surprised by the nearly full parking lot on a workday. Obviously nudists or rather naturists— the preferred term—didn’t have 9-to-5 jobs. After the gate parted, she entered to claim one of the few open parking spaces.

  Tucking a small reporter’s notebook inside her oversized fanny pack, she made her way toward a canopied area as instructed by the posted signs. Soon a golf cart with an elderly driver rattled and putt-putted as it approached. The man, who wore nothing but a bath towel cinched around his waist sarong-style, navigated the cart. It idled in front of Jaimie.

  Unnaturally white teeth, tube socks, and sneakers glowed against a backdrop of sun-roasted skin. “Climb aboard!” the old man bellowed, before whisking her toward the administrative office.

  “I’m Bernie Herman, but everybody calls me Pops.” He smiled, tipping his sun visor. Look Ma, No Tans Lines! gleamed across the bill in bold iridescent letters.

  Jaimie found her voice and a weak smile. “Uh, er, nice to meet you, Pops.” Unsure how thoroughly he’d secured his towel, she kept her gaze on the gravel path before them or his silvery blue eyes.

  “You picked a great day for an orientation tour. One of our new members is due for a dedication ceremony. I’m sure you’ve heard of Reuben Richardson.”

  Had she ever! “The Ice Cream King, right?” The words eased off her lips, though his name sent her adrenaline rampaging. Reuben Richardson—the man behind this madness! She had become obsessed with the eccentric multimillionaire after promising to deliver his exclusive to the Corrinth Examiner. An editor at the award-winning daily newspaper had practically promised her a job if she could pull this off. With the newspaper industry in upheaval—suffering from shrinking advertising dollars and print circulation—new reporting positions had been scarce. This paper, however, wanted to beef up its digital edition by hiring an additional reporter. A full-time staff position at the Examiner would mean kissing the Butler County Bee goodbye. Hacking for the rag of a weekly had taken its toll. At the Examiner, she could tackle bona fide journalism and cozy up to a fatter paycheck. Those extra bucks would go a long way to ease the strain on her family’s finances.

  She’d made up her mind to go after Richardson, undeterred by the equally determined pack of print, radio, digital, and television reporters who had done the same and failed over the years. Neither Richardson’s power nor infamous distaste for the media had intimidated her. He might have parlayed his granddaddy’s two-truck milk delivery service into an international ice cream empire, but his life story was just another puff piece. Hardly a notch up from the Porta Potti scandal she’d exposed on page 1 of the Butler County Bee after last year’s Veterans Day parade. But Richardson was a means to a desperately desired end.

  The scoop required savvy investigative reporting, well-placed sources, and even her
undercover tag—Lynn, her middle name. No Bond Girl panache there, but at least she’d never made the cover-blowing mistake of not answering to it.

  Undercover tactics were one thing. No-cover tactics were another. The possibility of infiltrating a compound full of people who enjoyed “social nudity” just to get close to Richardson had never occurred to her until earlier that morning, when she’d discovered he would appear at Shangri-La at noon. She’d jumped at the chance to get a crack at him. Who knew when she’d nab another hot tip?

  Pops broke her reverie. “Shangri-La’s brimming with a lot more excitement than usual today. A man as successful as Mr. Richardson should give the place an air of respectability.”

  The administrative office, housed in a dome-shaped, burnt orange stucco building circled by purplish puffs of barberry shrubs and large leafy hydrangeas, popped into view in the clearing just ahead. The driver bounded out, and skirted the grill of the cart to the passenger side, extending his hand to assist Jaimie. “Trudie, the manager, is inside. Hope you enjoy your visit.” Pops took off toward the group of towel-clad people playing volleyball on a vast square of sand a few feet away. Yes! Jaimie hadn’t been as happy to see so many towels since Kmart’s last white sale. She hadn’t encountered one butt-naked person yet. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. A brassy blonde with dark roots waited at the door. So far so good.

  The woman wore an over-sized Shed Your Threads T-shirt that reached mid-thigh. “Nice to meet you, Lynn,” she said with a Kentucky-fried drawl and extended acrylic talons for a shake. “I’m Trudie. We spoke on the phone.”

  “Hello.” Jaimie scanned the surroundings. Those in the office did mundane tasks, wearing more terry cloth—tied wrap- or sarong-style. A petite brunette with a Betty Boop tattoo on her left shoulder answered the ringing phone at the reception desk. A sunburned guy with a screwdriver in hand and a tool belt swinging low over his towel-covered hips tinkered with an old Motorola in the corner. In the recreation room to the right of the lobby, Jaimie heard tinkling laughter and the staccato click-clack of two chubby young women engaged in a vigorous table tennis match.

  “Have we met before?” Trudie asked, cocking her head to one side. “You look familiar to me.”

  “No, I don’t believe we have.” Jaimie’s cover would be blown if Trudie made the connection to the head shot published along with Jaimie’s newspaper columns. Donning some sort of discreet disguise, at least an understated wig, in the future might not be a bad idea.

  “So, you’re thinking of joining Shangri-La?” Trudie lifted a clipboard and pen off a nearby counter.

  Still uneasy about misrepresenting herself, Jaimie avoided making eye contact as she served up one of many fabrications necessary to get the job done. “Sounds like fun.”

  “Have you ever been to a naturist retreat before?”

  “No.’’

  Trudie quirked a penciled-in brow as if she could see right through her. “Why now?”

  Jaimie evaded the woman’s hawkish gaze and feigned interest in the cheesy watercolors of nude people adorning the wood-paneled walls. “I’ve always thought I’d enjoy the freedom of being unencumbered by this.” She plucked at her blazer and the polyester tank top underneath.

  “You can always walk around in the privacy of your home without clothes. Why join a naturist retreat?”

  Jaimie hesitated a moment too long. Did she really expect to just waltz in and poke around without someone poking back? Forced to look the manager in the eye, she replied, “Well, true, but…but… here, um, there’s no indoor confinement. I’d love to feel a soft breeze and the warm sun on every inch of my skin.” She gestured toward one of the watercolors. “Like the happy folks frolicking in these pictures here.”

  Trudie went through the motions of a smile, clearly unconvinced. “We’re a family resort. All sorts of good solid citizens of the community are members here—young, old, doctors, lawyers, teachers, housewives, even business tycoons. The atmosphere is clean and respectable. We can sniff out people who come here looking for…for…something other than what goes on here, if you know what I mean. There’s tennis, volleyball, swimming, hiking, camping, and wholesome parties and get-togethers that all ages can enjoy. This is not nor has it ever been a swingers or singles club.” Trudie hit Jaimie with an accusatory glare.

  The manager had obviously misinterpreted nervous energy as something lascivious. Jaimie squared her shoulders. She was a class act. Didn’t she look the part in her navy business suit? Her skirt grazed her knees with unrelenting appropriateness and her tank top barely skimmed her curves. She’d button her jacket if she didn’t require quick access to her bulging fanny pack. Instead, she dropped her hands and bristled at the woman’s nerve. But indignation would not get the best of her. “I understand,” Jaimie said, keeping the edge out of her voice. “Sounds like just the sort of place I’m looking for!” She smiled with as much sincerity as she could muster to ease Trudie’s suspicions. It worked. The stern lines of the manager’s savagely tanned face softened.

  Jaimie touched the wax daffodils in a vase on the reception counter. “Speaking of activities…Mr. Herman, uh, I mean Pops mentioned that there was something special going on today.”

  “Ah yes. Reuben Richardson, one of our newest members, donated a beautiful bronze fountain to the grounds,” Trudie said. “We’re having a special dedication ceremony as soon as he arrives.”

  “Isn’t he here already?”

  “No, I’m afraid he’s been detained by business. He promised to get here as soon as he could, though.”

  Jaimie chewed her bottom lip. Of all the dumb luck. She checked her watch and the wall clock that ran five minutes too fast. Its tick resonated through the room like a time bomb. The countdown had begun. Thirty-five minutes until strip time! Gah!

  “As I told you on the phone,” Trudie explained as if reading her thoughts, “you’re allowed to keep your clothes on for the guided tour, but if you want to stay longer to take part in the festivities you’ll have to disrobe.” She moved to a shelf, her flip-flops slapping the ceramic tiles. She removed a folded white square and held it out for Jaimie’s inspection. “You’ll be given a towel like this one. Shangri-La rule number one, no bare bottoms are to touch any of the furniture, for sanitary purposes, of course. And besides, flesh sticking to vinyl can be dreadfully unpleasant in this heat. Rule number two, the towel is usually for sitting, but we’re making an exception today. Mr. Richardson requested that we all cover up for his wife’s sake. It seems Mrs. Richardson hasn’t wrapped her brain around the Shangri-La concept just yet. Poor dear, probably has deep-seated body image issues. She’ll come around eventually. But in the meantime he really wants her with him at the dedication ceremony. So today, and today only, you may fashion a wrap with your towel. Soon as Mrs. Richardson departs after the ceremony, it’s business as usual.’’

  Jaimie nodded, relaxing her grip on the towel. All the creative twisting and knotting in the world wouldn’t make it adequate coverage.

  “You can leave your towel here for now, but should you choose to stay, I’ll go over the rest of the regulations before you’re set loose on the grounds.” Trudie waved at a short, balding man passing by. While his frame was slight, a belly bulged over his towel wrap. He had spindly legs with bony knots for knees and boat-like feet tucked in chunky Teva sandals. “That’s Lars Washington, one of our oldest and most generous members.”

  Reuben Richardson. Now Lars Washington. Two of the most successful entrepreneurs in town were members of Shangri-La. Who knew! Jaimie shoved the towel back on the shelf. Maybe she wouldn’t need it.

  The man nodded his greeting, before plucking a soccer ball from a box of sports equipment.

  “That’s the Lars Washington of Sole to Soul Shoe Factory?” Jaimie whispered, watching him depart.

  “In the Shangri-La brochures we could boast about our multimillionaire members, but we chose not to. Part of Shangri-La’s appeal is when you step behind these gates and stri
p down; we’re all the same. There’s very little social class distinction. Nobody is judging you based on what you’re wearing. There’s something so liberating about that. Don’t you think?”

  “Great,” Jaimie replied on autopilot.

  “It’s tour time, then!’’ Trudie jotted down a few notes on her clipboard. “Hmmm. Let’s see, we’ll start with the camp site, then we’ll work our way back to the rec room.”

  A crowd had congregated around the pool and fountain. Jaimie hoped Richardson had arrived. “Can we start with the pool instead? I’d love to see your new fountain.”

  Trudie paused to consider the detour. “I guess that’s okay. We’re going to have a contest to name it. The winner gets a free one-year supply of Mr. Richardson’s best-selling flavor, Mega Mocha Chubby Chip!”

  “Is that so? Wonderful,” Jaimie replied, though the last thing a naturist needed was a truckload of free ice cream.

  When they reached the sculpture Jaimie gaped, blinked, and gaped again. The 65- foot-long monstrosity had been fashioned to resemble a provocatively-posed female leg and foot, complete with painted red toenails.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Trudie gushed.

  “Um, yeah.”

  “And it has a practical purpose, too.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s a sundial. See? The limb, which acts as the gnomon, is adjusted to our latitude. See the numbers at its base? The shadows hit just so and voila! We get the most accurate time without wearing a timepiece—”

  “For the most unfettered naturist experience?”

  “Exactly. You’re catching on. The history of naturism is very rich. Benjamin Franklin was a naturist, you know,” Trudie prattled on. “Mr. Richardson commissioned the sculpture, but he let us submit ideas to the artist for the design. He hasn’t seen it yet, but we think he’ll be quite pleased with the concept, don’t you think, Lynn?”

  “Well...uh… It’s very…um…interesting.”

  The brunette with the Betty Boop tattoo darted toward the pair. “Trudie! You’re not going to believe this! The ice sculpture just arrived, but instead of getting the replica of Michelangelo’s David that we ordered, they delivered this God-awful no-neck bird they’re claiming is a swan. It looks like Donald Duck! Obviously somebody screwed up, but the delivery men won’t take it back, and they’re demanding the balance of the bill!”