by Cj Paul
Tempted
by CJ Paul
Part one of the Conquered trilogy
Copyright 2012 CJ Paul
All rights reserved.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Regardless of your level of enjoyment (which is hopefully sky high), this ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please do purchase an additional copy for as many recipients as you would like – the more, the better, in fact. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please close your eyes, close the document, and return to Amazon to purchase your very own, shiny, new copy. Thank you for respecting the diligence of this author, whose only goal in life is to delight you.
Table of Contents
Section I (Chapters 1-13) – Satisfied by Design
Section II (Chapters 14-37) – Coming and Going
Section III (Chapters -38-47) – Fall and Grace
The Author, Other Books and the Conquered Community
A peek at what’s to come
Chapter One“I can’t go on like this, not after all that’s happened. I mean, it isn’t as though I haven’t tried. It’s just...without him I have no reason to live. I don’t even want to live! Without him, my life is nothing. It has no meaning. I’m just useless,” the caller concludes.
“Dear, you can never let the actions, words or even opinions of another color your view of yourself, even when it’s someone close to you, especially when it’s someone close to you. You are a physician. You are a mother. You are a strong woman who can have the world by the tail,” I reply assuredly, all the while trying to remove a purring, long-haired feline from my laptop’s keyboard.
“Don’t let one misguided, confused, self-loathing male steal the confidence and self-appreciation you have spent your whole life cultivating. You are entitled to every happiness this world has to offer. And you need look no further than within yourself to find all the love and validation you desire and deserve...and what’s more, you know it!” I punctuate these last words as my foot gives an extra pull to the rope toy I am tugging in order to keep my bulldog pup from barking while Mommy solves the world’s relationship problems.
“You’re right, Claire. I know you’re right. I just never thought of it quite that way. Thank you so much. Okay.
“Mwah! Okay, dears, that wraps up today’s You Could be the One segment of our show. Join me next week when our topic will be Indulging Your Inner Geisha. If you missed any of our live broadcasts, you can always catch them again on Youtube or the homepage on our site. And don’t forget to sign up in advance if you want to be part of our In-Studio Audience. Have a great rest of the week and thanks for sharing the siren life with me, Claire Eden. Ciao for now.”
I smile and exhale a satisfied sigh as I click the exit music and remove my headphones. The week’s broadcast is done and I have the rest of the day to play hooky until next week’s pre-show prep starts all over again tomorrow. Content with another life-transforming episode, and over the moon about my new sponsor, I shuffle my way to the kitchen to put the kettle on, trying not to trip in my voluminous Bugs Bunny slippers. I readjust my red silk kimono robe, wanting nothing more than to settle in with a mug of Yorkshire Gold – one lump, a generous splash of milk – some chocolate hazelnut biscotti, and a comfortingly worn-out copy of Anna Karenina. All in all, the perfect way to dispose of an inclement February morning in Strawberry.
Life wasn’t always so cozy. Until just recently, my days as a San Francisco radio talk show host were a barrage of meetings, traffic, politics and product placement.
Admittedly, when the radio station that had carried my talk show for eight years changed formats, I envisioned my world collapsing around my ears. I was finally syndicated, finally in a groove and, let’s face it, finally successful. At least successful enough to get my mom off my back about how I should get a ‘real’ job, presumably as a stenographer for some lecherous, misogynistic attorney in the city, instead of wasting my time playing BFF and confidante to my confused callers.
So when my own BFF, April, suggested that, rather than jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge in dramatic despair, I should continue my show as a podcast, I jumped – at the chance, that is, not off the aforementioned bridge.
At first, I had no idea how to go about this podcasting business, so I tooled around San Francisco sizing up studio spaces. Most were in the seediest environs imaginable, and all were arrogantly priced. When I mentioned this to April she blithely remarked, “So broadcast from your home. It’s free, you’ve just finished remodeling, you’re a home-body anyway, and did I mention it’s free?”
Yeh, there’s a good reason she’s my best friend. Apparently Claire, the sage and helpful voice of reason, needs a reasonable voice of her own to turn to.
Of course, I can always consult the menagerie, specifically cat Jasper, bulldog pup Persephone, parakeets Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, Legolas and Galadriel, and my endearing box turtle, Daphne. When important decisions are to be made such as the most fetching ensemble to sport, or which color of toe polish to apply, I seek out their sapient advice. After all, working from home means they are the only beings who see me socially. And their input is far more positive than that of my mother, who will not only find the non-existent fly in the ointment, but will turn any question I may ask her into an opportunity to bring up everything I’ve ever done wrong in my life.
She is still dismayed about the length of my hair. In her estimation, no one over thirty should have hair past their shoulders. Mine is what I wistfully describe as mermaid-length, or, more accurately, tuck-into-your pants length – provided the pants aren’t too low-cut. Poor Mom is up in arms and determined to interject into every conversation the fact that she knows someone who could do something with my hair and give me a professional tv broadcaster coiff. She always makes a point to add that she would be happy not only to make the appointment for me, but to pick up the tab as well! Hint, hint. Worse yet, she says I generally look like a widowed dowager because I most often knot my hair on top of my head and secure it with a chopstick, and I now wear reading glasses while at the computer, which is pretty much always.
Of course, the best part of the ongoing follicle feud is that it has momentarily diverted her from her usual crusade – that of finding me a man. God forbid her daughter should be an independent, self-made career girl and homeowner! Without a man, it all amounts to nil in Mom’s eyes.
Truth be told, she’s not the only one enthusiastically perched atop the ‘you need a man’ bandwagon. Most of my friends are of the opinion that my social life is, at best, mildly pathetic. The married ones, especially, find great purpose in their efforts to see me wed. Quality of the groom rarely enters into the discussion. The main objective seems to be the speed at which they can get me hitched, without the slightest thought for my ever after. Most of these incessant well-meaners fear my becoming a ‘cat lady,’ and my quips about the fact that I have only one cat in my seven-pet family do little to assuage their vexation.
I often wonder about the hapless objects of my friends’ matchmaking. Are my male counterparts also secretly rolling their eyes in frustration at the thought of being set up with yet another e-Harmony dropout? Oh, how I remember that experience! Danielle, my producer at the radio station, took it upon herself to enroll both of us in a 90-day free trial membership with that hugely successful online dating pool. She conducted extensive research on the top matchmaking sites, and was quite impressed with the caliber of males on eHarmony. At least someone cares ab
out quality control!
I actually connected with and ultimately met one very nice gentleman from the site. We hit it off instantly – in a brother/sister sort of way. We stayed in contact for a few years, swapping dating war stories and laughing uproariously over the really pitiful ones. He always had something incredibly insightful and positive to share whenever I was dealing with some sort of guy drama or letdown. We lost contact a couple years back when I changed my number, then lost my cell phone and all of its contacts. Rather a liberating experience, in retrospect.
In fact, the last few years have been increasingly liberating in just about every aspect of life. Not only do I get to work from home (thanks, April), but I am my own boss! No more slick sales reps schmoozing me into reading their ad copy on air ‘just this once,’ as a favor just for them, and did they mention my bunned hair looks lovely today? No more staff meetings. No more petty, jealous in-house competition. No more billboards splattered with my name and some catchy jingle serving little purpose other being waymarks that enable bitter, gridlocked drivers to gauge their progress through traffic. No more ‘top brass’ to please and appease. My current board of directors consists solely of the menagerie, who are usually quite happy to see things my way if peanut butter or bacon are proffered.
All in all, life is good. More accurately, life is great!
Despite being a virtual shut-in, I have what I consider to be a rich and rewarding social life, albeit completely online. My pesky, former producer Danielle opened a Facebook account for me about a year ago – once again without asking – and after many, lonely, uneventful days of posting for my own amusement, out of the woodwork, fans of the show and their six-degrees of separated ‘friends’ began interacting with me publicly, and chatting me up privately. I found that I not only enjoyed it, but that I was well suited to it. Rather like the salons of yesteryear, I could play hostess non pareil, all from my overstuffed goose down sofa, and without having to wear anything different than I’d worn the day before...and the day before that.
So began my life of social media mania. Now, a veteran user of Facebook, Tumblr, Twitter, Blogger, Pinterest, LinkedIn, yada yada, I have fallen into a pleasant little rhythm of posting, ‘liking,’ sharing, tagging, and so on. I have been introduced to the most compelling photos of manmade and natural wonders, and have had my mind opened to innovations so grand in scope, I can barely fathom them – especially TED Talks. I could spend hours getting contentedly lost with TED.
Then there are the comments people add to the posts of others. Good grief! Comedy Central ain’t got nothin’ on them. The only downside is that reading such commentary has proved hazardous on many occasions, when peals of laughter collide with a hefty swig of the libation on hand.
By and large, trolling social pages has proven to be a highly entertaining and thoroughly satisfying pastime, and keeps me in the pop culture loop, since I decided to live sans tv – and more recently, radio, for more personal reasons – Grrrrrr! My justification for all the time spent with my online community is that it’s like doing research for my show. It keeps me tapped into trends, tastes, and whatever breaking news is worth coming out of my cyber hole to follow.
Perhaps the best part of my current lifestyle is the flexibility to work at odd hours and take catnaps. Oh, how I love the catnaps. And the menagerie seems rather fond of them as well. Nearly every day, at least once a day, I awaken with my computer still in my lap, after dozing off while happily working. Chilled, foggy days like today nearly beg for naps. And since I am all done with work until tomorrow, and really have nowhere I have to be, I see no reason why I shouldn’t treat myself to a br
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Chapter TwoHaving a reliable internal clock comes in handy, especially when it tends to go off at important times of the day, like when the dinner items are put on display at the Trader Joe’s sample bar. What can I say? I’m a foodie. And not a bit ashamed of it.
I find pleasure in food to degrees that would make chefs either beam with pride or vow never to set foot back in a kitchen again. This surprising phenomenon came to my attention a couple of years back, when I first experienced physical climax brought on by the stimulation of exquisite foods on appreciative taste buds. I was thrilled, to say the least. The same goes for magnificent music. I can’t say I completely understand this form of sensual release, but I am certainly grateful for it, particularly since I am currently a dateless hermit, and my only male contact is with those who have fur or feathers.
But I’ve no time for such reveries now. I must slough off my kimono and Bugs footies and attempt to look somewhat presentable in order to face the cheery TJ’s staff who are awaiting me. I am such a regular customer at my favorite grocery that I have taken the liberty of referring to it merely by its initials.
For me, the TJ’s experience is much more than a shopping excursion. As with most of the pleasures in my life, it has become a welcome ritual that I look forward to with great fervor and zest. I have my in-store flight path down to a science, and can be in and out usually within fifteen minutes, when the store isn’t crowded. Today is no exception. I grab a couple of packages of lettuces, some curried chicken salad, Italian Piave cheese, Shepherd’s Pie, milk, heavenly ultra-thick whipping cream, almond biscotti, mini cherry scones, lemon curd, hummus, mint chip ice cream sandwiches, and then head to the sample bar where adorably dimpled Sarah stands smiling at me.
“Right on time,” she says. “I saved you something special.” She looks both ways, then reaches under the counter to fetch the contraband treats she’s squirreled away from the previous shift.
“Oh my gosh! These are ridiculously good!” I gush, savoring every last atom of the minute deliciousness given me. “What is this?”
“Tofu edamame nuggets,” she smiles.
“What? No way. These things are seriously good!”
“Here,” she says, handing me a box of them. “Oh and you need this too. It’s a new coffee from Sri Lanka, just in. Smell those beans.”
“Oh my!” I close my eyes, inhale, and am instantly in heaven.
Moments later, I am back on the road, caught in an unexpected downpour that compels me to cancel my standing Wednesday night reservation at Il Fornaio in Corte Madera. Once home, I manage to unload the groceries just before the rain descends in earnest. I put away the cold items, and search for some semblance of dinner to throw together. A leftover baked potato, some chicken tenderloins begging to be cooked, jam, eggs, condiments, a medley of cooked red pepper slices, onions and broccoli florets, and a packet of cream cheese that isn’t long for this world. Hmmmmm. Slim pickin’s.
Undaunted, I grab my trusty cast iron skillet – thanks Grammy Price – and set it on the stovetop while rummaging through the pantry for flavors that might fraternize well with one another. After playing spice alchemist, I slather the chicken with melted butter and roll the pieces in the mosh pit of spices. I then crank up the heat on the iron skillet, feeling rather like a blacksmith preparing to forge a formidable something-or-other. I toss the chicken onto the scorching metal for a couple of minutes, drizzling the tops with more butter and enjoying the reckless abandon of it all. Secretly, I hope for one of those lovely moments of release. But unfortunately, it only seems to work when someone else does the cooking.
Once the chicken is done, I whip up my famous poor man’s Alfredo sauce, reheat the veggies, cram the potato with them and the chicken, drown it all with the sauce, and shave a hefty bit of the Piave over the top. Voila! A culinary masterpiece is born – or so I tell myself.
I grab my plate and a seafood fork – a silly custom I’ve adopted to keep me from overeating...a girl does what she’s gotta do – and plop down on the sofa in my family room, intending to light a fire and enjoy the rain. But my romantic plans come to a screeching halt the moment I dare open my laptop and ‘check in’ on my various social media pages. Looks like my primary personal acco
unt has 147 notifications and 32 new private messages. April has forwarded me a couple of things that are darkly comedic, which pleases me very much. Scrolling down my page, my eyes take in a potpourri of loving affirmations, redneck jokes, photos of puppies in costume, ‘oh wow, cool’ images and interesting status updates.
Well, whaddaya know? Peter Hamilton is fresh back from Barcelona, and waxing witty on his page.
“You run into Julian Carax during your travels?” I quip, citing the enigmatic character in Carlos Ruiz Zafón’s novel Shadow of the Wind – a book we both love and occasionally refer to.
“Funny you should ask. I did the whole walk-in-the-footsteps of Daniel thing while there,” he responds, referring to the story’s young protagonist.
“No way!” I lamely return, trumped as usual by Mr. Perfect, as my friend April has dubbed him.
Peter Hamilton is everything a girl could ask for in an adult male. A divorced/no kids/shared-dog custody literary agent living in the Presidio, he is 6’3” (my favorite height), with an unruly shock of dark, thick, straight hair and pale, piercing eyes. In his younger years, he qualified for the Olympic decathlon team, but never saw competition due to a training injury. While an undergrad at Berkeley, he double-majored in Business Administration and English. As if that weren’t attractive enough, he dabbles in plein-air painting as a hobby, and occasionally sneaks away to do a bit of World Cup Yacht Racing.
I engage in what I consider to be incredibly witty banter with Mr. Hamilton as I continue to attend to my online social business, all the while taking baby nibbles of my new favorite dinner concoction, which I think I shall ingeniously name ‘that potatoey, chickeny, gooey thing.’ I am all caught up on my correspondence, and before I know it, have arranged to go on a bonafide date with Mr. Perfect. I immediately text April and stare at my phone, awaiting her response. But, unlike me, she has an actual life and cannot text back right away, as she is busy at back to school night with her young son. Thus, I am left to panic, strategize, and sort out a date outfit, with only the aid of the menagerie.