by Lee Taylor
"This is a private road, buddy," the guy said.
Just my luck.
"I was checking out the homes back there. Know anything about them?"
The driver smirked a grin. "Guess I do. I'm the developer. Name's Traw Hunter, from Alaska. I'm on my way to check on the progress of the condos. Wanna follow?"
"Sounds good to me. I'm Michael Atherton. I'm a Canadian, from Victoria, BC."
Traw reached across to shake his hand. "See you in a few minutes."
~~~
By the time Michael's Air Panama plane took off the next afternoon from Enrique Malek airport en route from David to Panama City on the first leg of his journey home, he was feeling pretty pumped. He'd visited Traw's offices in David, Panama's second largest city. After lengthy discussions, he'd agreed to invest in the condo project.
He spent most of the twenty-five minute flight flipping through his calendar to settle on a date when he might return to Panama. He'd have to convince Gary to come up with a share of the money, but if his brother had indeed landed a lucrative contract for a client, that should be no problem.
His commuter jet landed at the domestic airport at Allbrook near the Pacific end of the Panama Canal. It took longer to cross Panama City in a cab to the International Airport at Tocumen than it had taken to fly from David. The traffic was horrendous, the rules of the road non-existent. The frequent toll booths on the Corregidor Sur seemed designed to make matters worse.
He checked into the COPA Airlines counter, then took the escalator up to the Food Court. After dawdling over a couple of pieces of Domino's Pizza, a Coke and a Cinnabon, he wandered through the duty free stores. He bought a bottle of Crown Royal for less than half the price he'd pay at home.
Shapely young women lured him into various commercial displays pedalling anything from luxury sports cars to cell phones. It stroked his male ego, even if they were paid commission to entice him.
His plane left on time. He buckled himself into the window seat, then reached into his carry-on to fish out the paperback he'd almost finished, only to find Gary had also stashed a proof copy of his protégé's book.
That fucking Gary. Wait till I see him, I'll--
His gut clenched. His Willing Slave. Did his brother suspect? Maybe Gary was a closet Dom, too. Nah!
He furled through the pages, then examined the cover again. Dallas Lancaster--couldn't be her real name.
Christ! The fucking guy slobbering all over the chick handcuffed to a bed looked altogether too much like Michael.
The elderly woman in the next seat cast him a sideways glance, her smile tight. He flipped the book over and shoved it underneath his own. He reached up to turn on the air. His companion pursed her lips. "Sorry," he rasped. "Don't you find it hot in here?"
To his surprise, she patted his hand. "You'll be fine once we reach cruising altitude."
He smiled weakly, slumping back in his seat, a time bomb on his lap. Should he read it? A few pages wouldn't hurt. Yeah, he'd know after a page or two if it was worth reading.
He took out the magazine from the seat pocket, opened it and slid the book from its hiding place. He glanced at his seat mate. Good. Eyes closed.
Shit! He hadn't behaved this way since he was a teenager hiding porn magazines from his parents.
Angling his body to rest his shoulder on the bulkhead, he eased off his shoes and opened the book.
~~~
By the time the plane touched down in Houston hours later, Michael was a physical wreck. His cock throbbed mercilessly. He couldn't wait to read the end. The author had peered into his soul.
First stop was the rest room, where he quickly alleviated his bodily needs.
That's a first, jerking off in an airport lavatory.
He retrieved his suitcase, stuffed the Crown Royal into the middle of his dirty laundry, then wheeled it to the Connecting Flights belt.
He couldn't put the book down, even reading it in the US Immigration lines and the interminable slow-moving overseas security check line. He tuned out the complaints of people around him, unhappy at having to endure another security check when they'd submitted to the same scrutiny abroad and had never left the secure area of the airport.
An hour out of Houston en route to Vancouver, he read the final chapter. The book fell forward onto his chest as exhaustion lulled him into a fitful doze.
Despite its arousing content, reading His Willing Slave had calmed him. He didn't feel quite so alone and confused about his sexuality. The hero had struggled with the same wants and needs.
He was scheduled to perform a solo in a concert the day he got back. In his mind he rehearsed The Himes Concerto over and over. He'd played it many times before, but it was a complex piece.
It would be a rush. Overnight in Vancouver, then the puddle jumper across to Victoria. The concert was later that same evening. Plus, he'd have to retrieve the dogs. He was looking forward to seeing the little buggers again.
He remembered Linda had entered them in another dog show, which he was pretty sure was sometime about now. He'd have to check once he got home. The fee had been exorbitant, and of course he'd paid it like the chump he was.
The original plan had been to pick them up at the kennel, but they'd ended up across town at a stranger's house. Good thing Gary had asked what's-her-name to bring them over. Why she'd taken them home, he couldn't fathom. He peeled open one eye and looked again at the book's cover. Dallas Lancaster.
~~~
Michael made sure his Blackberry had updated to the Pacific Time zone, then set the alarm--more reliable than a hotel wake-up call, and he enjoyed waking to a recording of his solo of the Titanic theme with the Little Mountain Brass Band from Vancouver.
He'd have to be up early to catch the 7 am flight to Victoria. The United flight from Houston had arrived in Vancouver just after midnight, so he wouldn't get much sleep. He yawned, switched off the light, and tugged the blanket up to his neck. Vancouver felt cool after the heat of Panama and he'd gotten chilled in the shuttle bus from the airport.
The Blackberry beeped. A text message? At this time of night? He switched the bedside light back on and squinted at the screen, scrolling to the BBM icon. Linda? Does the woman not realize there's a time difference between here and Athens?
Michael Remember 2 take dogs 2 show 2morrow. Luv L.
Fuck! Tomorrow? What did she mean by tomorrow? Did she mean today, the day of his concert, or tomorrow, the day after? He couldn't get his sleep-deprived brain to function. Why hadn't he put the details of the Dog Show in his calendar?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Michael was awakened by a rap on the door. "Housekeeping."
It seemed he'd just fallen asleep. Groggily, he grabbed his Blackberry and stared at the time, realizing numbly he'd slept through the alarm and had only forty minutes to get to the airport. He showered, dressed, and packed in record time. He used his battery shaver in the cab.
His head was pounding as he slammed the taxi door and ran to check in, cursing that he'd forgotten to do the web thing the previous day.
That's what you get for reading porn.
The woman at the Air Canada counter offered no greeting as she took his passport. She pounded the keyboard, tagged his bag, and thrust his boarding pass and passport into his hand. She gave him a disapproving glare, smoothing back a hair that had come loose from her tight bun. "They've already started boarding. You'll have to hurry. Gate 32."
The last to board the propjet Jazz flight, he stuffed the case he'd bought specially for his flugelhorn into the overhead bin, slumped into his aisle seat with a fake smile at the person by the window, and fastened his seat belt.
Breathing heavily, a reminder of too many beers in Panama, he fell asleep, his last thought a mental note to avoid flying Air Canada whenever possible.
~~~
A bump of turbulence woke him. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Victoria where the local time is--"
He glanced out the window. They were already taxii
ng along the runway. His neighbor gave him a strained smile. His snoring must have annoyed her. Oh well, what the fuck. She probably hadn't travelled thousands of miles in a few short hours.
Speaking of time constraints, he was anxious to get home, unpack, practice the Himes Concerto he was booked to solo, then get some much needed shuteye before the concert. Oh yeah. The dog lady was coming too. For some reason, that made him anxious.
He'd no trouble getting a cab home. He keyed in the code, waving at the neighbor whose name he could never recall. He opened the door, and dumped his bags so he could switch off the alarm. It hadn't been armed. "Stupid broad. She can write a novel but can't set an alarm."
Maybe he shouldn't be so testy. The woman had rescued the dogs after all.
The house was too quiet. It seemed strange not to hear little doggy claws clicking on the hardwood floor as they scurried to greet him. He put his bags on his bed, planning to unpack later. Better check the date of this infernal Dog Show.
He rubbed his eyes in disbelief as he stared at the entry form secured to the fridge with a magnet. He yanked it off, sending the magnet flying.
Today? The damn show is today.
He slumped on to the kitchen chair, hating the squeak of the vinyl. Cheap shit. He'd bought his furniture in a hurry after Linda took all the good stuff. He'd managed to hold on to the remortgaged house in the settlement, but she'd got everything else, including a sizable payment from him. How else did she afford a vacation in Greece?
Good thing he had Atherton Investigations. The skills he'd learned on the job now earned him much more in the private sector. And he could set his own hours. It was ironic that along with his Ministry contract, the most lucrative side of his work was collecting evidence on spouses suspected of infidelity. The majority of it was camera work, not his forte, so he'd hired a young assistant to tail the subjects with his Nikon.
Time to get his thoughts back on his dilemma.
He'd paid a ridiculous fee to enter the dogs in the prestigious show, biggest of the year. Linda would harass him mercilessly if he didn't go. But the show started in two hours. It was scheduled to run until five, which would leave him just about enough time to scoot over to the Pandora Auditorium for the performance.
What time was Gary's friend, client--whatever--coming with the dogs? Nine, he seemed to recall. If he hurried he could fit in a quick power workout with his weights, shower, change, practice at least the complex third movement of the concerto, and be ready when she arrived with Minnie and Maxie. Ten minutes or so to spruce them up and he'd be on his way--if he could stay awake.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Jessie could have sworn she'd taken the right exit off the Pat Bay Highway. She was supposed to arrive at 9 o'clock and it was already five after. By the time she got back on the highway and found the right exit, she'd probably be fifteen minutes late.
One personality trait had remained constant since childhood. She couldn't be late, always arriving at least ten minutes early for any appointment. Her friends kidded her about it, but tardiness inevitably brought on anxiety.
She'd donned her warm cardigan and matching toque, anticipating wrestling with the dogs once more. Her head itched under the woollen toque.
She toyed with the idea of simply returning home. The stupid man could come and collect his own stupid dogs. But she'd made a commitment, and darn it, Jessie never reneged on a commitment.
Relieved when she located the house, she reversed into the driveway. "Here we are. Home again."
She slid out of her seat and went to ring the doorbell, but stopped abruptly, her finger poised over the button. The strains of her favorite piece of music filled the air.
La, da, da ,da dee da, my heart will go on--
The notes penetrated to her core. She closed her eyes, carried away on a cloud of listening pleasure. What a wonderful CD. Sounded like a trumpet, but not as strident. She should ask the name of the artist.
As the strains of the music died away she sighed wistfully and pressed the bell.
~~~
Perhaps if he kept playing the music he loved, Michael might loosen the knot in his belly. He ought to be practising the Himes, but Titanic was more soothing. The woman was already fifteen minutes late. He'd made it clear she was to be there at nine.
Fuck! Get a grip. She's not your sub.
He'd never make it to the show in time at this rate. Just as he came to the end of the piece, he heard the doorbell ring.
Finally.
His horn under his arm, he bolted to the door and yanked it open, momentarily thrown off balance by a stunning smile, and eyes so brown they were almost black. The dogs yelped and barked, paws up at the back window of an SUV. The woman held out one hand, the other tucked in the pocket of an oversize chunky cardigan that matched the toque she wore. Her smile faded a little. "Hi, I'm Jessie--"
"Great to meet you, Jessie." He ignored her hand. "Thanks again for taking care of the little devils. I'm afraid I'm in a bit of a hurry. The dogs are--Fuck! What have you done to them?"
He deposited his horn on the hall table and barreled past her to the SUV. She swivelled her head. "What--?"
He fiddled with the latch of the back door, finally got it open, and pulled out Maxie and Minnie. "What the hell have you been feeding them? They're so fat! Fuck! This is a catastrophe." He clutched the excited dogs to his chest and ran back into the house, trying to recall if Linda had scooped the bathroom scale.
The woman held up a hand like a policeman on point duty as he hurried by her. "Now just a minute."
He took a deep breath. He was acting like a crazy jerk, but time was of the essence. He put the dogs down, shooing them into the house, reached into his pocket, and peeled off a couple of twenties from the wad. "Look, thanks for helping out--how could you have known? Hope this'll cover your expenses." He thrust the money into her hand. "You don't mind American money I'm guessing. Haven't had a chance to change it back yet."
She gathered the ugly cardigan around her, looking at the greenbacks as if he'd handed her a snake. He didn't want to be rude, but--
He edged the door closed. "Bye then."
~~~
Despite the chilly air, sweat had broken out all over Jessie's body. She thrust her chin out and pressed her thumb to the doorbell. What a jerk! Who did he think he was, this too handsome, too tall, too tanned--aargh! guy who probably considered he was God's gift to women?
What an insult. Forty bucks! And he'd dismissed her as if she was a lackey. What the hell did he mean the dogs were fat? They were starving when she'd rescued them. So what if she'd overdone the food a bit?
She removed her thumb from the bell long enough to push up her sleeves, then pressed harder. He'd come to the door carrying a musical instrument, a fancy brass horn of some kind. Had he been the one making the beautiful music she'd heard? Impossible! Somebody with the manners of a troll could never produce such magic.
He wasn't coming back to the door. Perhaps it was for the best. She hated confrontation. She flexed her fingers, walked over on shaky legs to close the back door of the SUV, and climbed into the driver's seat. She drove away, pressing her elbows into her sides. The jerk had her shaking like a leaf.
Certainly not hero material.
~~~
Michael raced to the bathroom, the dogs wriggling under his arms. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the scale. He tapped it with his foot and hopped on when the OO showed.
"Fuck!" he shouted when he saw the combined weight of him and the dogs. "They'll never qualify."
Both dogs whined, struggling to be free while licking his face. The doorbell rang insistently. Bing bong, bing bong. He put Minnie down and weighed himself with each dog individually. Maxie might just be within the limits. Better than nothing.
He shoved the dogs into their carrier, grabbed the bag with their show paraphernalia and the entry form, and hurried to the garage, vaguely aware as he passed the front hallway that the ringing had stopped.
&nbs
p; He retrieved his horn from the hallstand and shoved it back into its case.
He bounced into his Ford Flex, deposited the dogs and his horn on the passenger seat, and punched the automatic door opener. He prayed the car would start after his lengthy absence. The engine caught on the second try. He backed out of the driveway, then sped off in the direction of the Memorial Arena.
Once his heartbeat slowed, he scrubbed his hand over his face. He'd been a complete jerk to the woman at his door. His sleep-deprived brain hadn't connected her with the writer of the book. He could have told her how much he'd enjoyed it.
No way. Men didn't read romance. She'd think he was a dork.
Who cares what she thinks?
His chest felt heavy. At this rate he'd be having another heart attack. This divorce shit was turning him into a maniac. No wonder the woman--what was her name--had rung the bell with such fury. He'd have to call Gary. Make it up to her somehow.
~~~
The insistent ring tone of his Blackberry woke Michael. He groaned. "What the fuck now?"
He flicked on the bedside lamp, narrowing his eyes to check out the call display. Gary?
"Jesus, bro, do you know what time it is?"
A pause. "Yeah, it's--nine thirty. Are you in bed already?"
Michael glanced at his phone again. He'd thought it was the middle of the night. "I've had one hell of a day."
"Guess the flight was tiring, eh?"
You could say that.
He puffed up the pillow behind his head. "Not just that. I had to take the dogs to a show. Your author friend was late, and she overfed them. Only Maxie qualified at just under 6 lbs."
"Well, she did you a big favor, Mike. How was she to know their weight mattered?"
Michael yawned. His brother sounded a bit testy. Had his client complained about his rudeness? "You're right. I had to forfeit the entry fee for Minnie. Plus the officious bitch at the gate refused to let me bring her in because she wasn't an entrant. I had to leave her in the car alone without the security of her carrier bag, because the rules said I needed it for Maxie. She isn't used to that. She peed all over the seat."