Something is wrong but I can’t put my finger on it. There’s been an electric buzz along my nerves for hours now, almost as if even my body knows that it shouldn’t go off of active alert anytime soon. It’s similar to what I felt when I was stationed in the deserts of the Middle East. When every day a land mine can unexpectedly blow up in your face, you learn to have a heightened sense of your surroundings and of the energy being thrown at you at any given time.
My mother always said I was more intuitive than most, I like to believe I’m just more observant. But I can’t argue with her ability to sense the motivations and feelings of people and things in her environment before they express it. And maybe, just maybe if that talent is real, I’ve retained a little bit of it in my own DNA.
Being home after years away has left me restless and uprooted. I can’t seem to dig in the way I once did here. It’s almost as if I have no anchor now. Suzanne has been gone for three years; I can’t help but feel that this is still my home, even though there are very few memories of the two of us here together. Really, it had been years since we had even inhabited the same home for any length of time, even before she died. I can’t help but regret the lost opportunities that I ignored while she was alive; the guilt that I still feel that she died alone, and that the unknown possibility of our child died with her. I never thought that I would long to be a father, but now all I want to do is put down some roots and make my life mean something.
Being a Civil Engineer, and a civilian contractor for the government, is a hard assignment for someone who wants to put down roots. The constant travel, the danger, the often harsh living conditions, especially during times of war… or at least strained peace. For almost fifteen years I’ve moved from place to place, country to country, each assignment getting increasingly more dangerous. What started as geologic surveys to determine possible stores of minerals and oil for refining, eventually gave way to searches for possible geologic anomalies that could lead to underground caves and hideouts for troops and terrorists.
Shaking the dark thoughts from my head, I wonder once again how a simple rock hound could end up in such a dangerous role. One day I was just a kid fascinated with studying the potential for mineral deposits and mining, and the next I found myself imbedded with troops around the world. My mother always said my curiosity would get me into trouble one day. It looks like that sixth sense of hers was way ahead of me even then.
Laughing lightly, I think about how many times she calls me just when I’m thinking about her. Her impatience when I seem surprised to hear from her, as if I should have expected it. Although, truthfully, I have come to expect it; it’s happened enough times in my life that I can’t deny that we are very attuned to one another’s thoughts. I could certainly feel her sadness after Suzanne’s death, even though they never really hit it off or spent much time together.
Thinking back to that day, I realize how unsurprised she seemed. Perhaps I was too numbed by the news to notice at the time given the circumstances. Even now, my chest tightens as I think back to that day. The saddened faces of my friends as our Base Commander brought me the news.
I was almost free. Just four more months and I was going to give up my vagabond existence to finally live with my wife in one place, together, no more ships passing in the night. It’s ironic that the career she loved so much, the one that brought us together, would also be the one that would tear us apart. How many times did I listen to her lecture other people about how flying was infinitely safer than driving a car? That the fear was only in their heads. That if birds could fly for thousands of miles without falling out of the sky, then so could people.
Finally giving in to her pleas to leave my contract with the Department of Defense because it was too dangerous, only to have her plane fall from the sky, just seemed like a cruel joke. Knowing how excited she was about being pregnant, or at least thinking she was, still leaves me torn. For a long time I couldn’t separate whether I was more devastated at the thought of having my child die with her, or finding out that she had never really been pregnant at all. I still occasionally wonder if it had all been just a ploy to force my hand to retire my position with the DOD.
Even three years later acid bubbles in my throat as I try to reconcile if her lies were an attempt to control me, or a cry for me to finally put her first in my life. Whatever the reason, I can’t help but feel somewhat ashamed that it took so much effort for me to pay attention.
Looking around me in the half light, I spot a large rock up ahead and perch where I can see the coming burst of dawn as my thoughts go back to our hotel room in Rome where we spent our last night together.
I had finally gotten several days leave and hopped a flight to her latest layover for a long weekend. It was rare that she didn’t immediately turn around on the next flight out, but she had traded some shifts with another flight attendant so that we could grab some quality time.
Most people thought we were crazy, that a marriage should be so much more than two people who constantly went their own way, reconnecting in fits and starts when time and circumstance allowed, but it worked for us. It certainly made each encounter more memorable.
Chapter Three
Dixon
Flashback - 4 years earlier
Rapping briskly on the door I wait impatiently for footsteps to approach on the other side. After a breath of silence my knuckles thump again when I hear the sharp ding of my phone heralding a text.
Door’s open. Drinks are on me
What the fuck? I laugh silently, turning the handle and stepping into the dim light. The small apartment is bathed in candlelight as my eyes search the corners for a glimpse of Suzanne’s long-limbs and smooth, mocha-colored skin. Passing a doorway I hear a sharp pop as my eyes immediately fly back to the image of my wife lying on the counter, naked, a champagne glass propped on her stomach and an open bottle of champagne swinging from one hand.
“Drink me.” Her words are sultry, and the slow grin parting her lips force an answering twist from my own, as one of her long legs slowly props itself on the counter allowing a tantalizing glimpse of the treasure between them.
Dropping my flight bag on the floor, I quickly travel the distance from the door to the counter, my eyes raking her splayed body and fingers itching to touch every mouthwatering inch. It’s been at least four months since we were last together in Paris. What was supposed to be a two week reconnect was cut short as she got pulled in to cover an international flight to Munich. I didn’t care because I thought we’d still have eight days together on her return. Then I got unexpectedly called back to Jordan three days later.
I was so thirsty to taste her now I could actually feel it like a physical ache deep in the pit of my stomach. Grabbing the bottle of Veuve from her hand, I carefully poured the champagne into the saucer watching it bubble and flood over the edges, running in messy rivulets across her stomach, down her sides, and south toward the promised land.
Entranced by the puddle now resting in the cave of her cleavage, I slowly bend toward her, our eyes locking as my head dips toward her breasts. Lapping up the bubbles trapped there, the heady taste of the champagne mixes with the essence of her skin giving me a sense of homecoming I hadn’t realized I was missing.
Reaching to stroke the hair falling softly across her face as her head twists toward mine, I clench it in my fist, holding her head exactly where I need it. Nibbling my way lightly up her neck, my lips travel across her chin toward her ear, before licking lightly around the delicate perimeter. I suddenly plunge my tongue inside to tease her, laughing at her squeal as she tries to pull away.
Using the hair gripped in my fist, I once again pull her head back to where I want it, leaning down over her once more to nip at her lips, capturing the full, bottom cushion with my teeth before growling slightly at her. As I release her lip she opens her mouth in protest and I take swift advantage, plunging my tongue into the depths, slowly stroking and caressing as her hands snake around my neck pulling me in fu
rther.
“Oh no you don’t,” I admonish pulling back slightly, “I’m dying of thirst, and you said drinks were on you. Pay up, cocktail bunny!”
Lifting the glass from her stomach, I swiftly take a sip, swishing the champagne lightly in my mouth before swallowing as hunger kindles in her eyes. Watching her intently, I sip some more before carefully leaning over and dragging my mouth from her navel to her pussy, lightly releasing the champagne from my lips to paint the way.
The flood of champagne on the countertop makes squelching sounds as she squirms, while my mouth slips along its hot trail down her body before finally resting between her lips below. I can’t help but nip at the delicate skin that holds the sensitive pearl I’m dying to taste between those elegant folds. Because they are elegant. Smooth and luscious, with just the right amount of fullness to pillow your cheek against when you’ve indulged in all of the sweet cream tucked inside.
But for now, my focus is getting to that lovely essence as the heady smell of her arousal makes my cock tighten painfully in anticipation. Stepping back, I admire her wanton, reckless pose as I quickly tug my shirt over my head, and unzip my pants to reveal my cock straining against the zipper.
Reaching out, she idly caresses the tip, her eyes focused on my painfully hardened flesh, saying, “Going commando again, I see.” I grunt in response as her fingers flutter across my leaking tip before suddenly beginning to move with more purpose; fisting my cock as I had fisted her hair, tugging me closer until she’s greedily working my flesh just as I’m working hers. For every lick of my tongue that I drag through her sensitive folds, her nails lightly scratch up the length of my cock.
Just as my head dips lower and my fingers burrow deeper to spread her pink flesh and bare the sensitive nub inside, she dips lower to lightly work her hand below my sack, lightly rolling and massaging my balls until I can’t contain a deep groan. But it only fuels my desire further as I plunge my tongue deep into the canal of her body, feeling her hips jerk sharply in response, responding to my rhythm.
Together we stroke and fan the flames until her legs begin to tighten and strain, her hips lifting higher as she thrusts her pussy toward my face, grinding against my thirsty tongue. Pulling back, I grab her wrist from where her hand is wrapped around my shaft and jerk her sharply upright, swinging her legs toward me, before pulling her hips off the edge. Dropping her head back toward the countertop, the arch of her back thrusts her breasts in the air, pointing toward me in a beacon of invitation.
The temptation to stop and honor her twin peaks distracts me momentarily until a needy whine brings me back to business. Grabbing her hips roughly, I quickly thrust into her moist heat, both of us immediately groaning in satisfaction.
“Damn it, Suz, I’ve missed you,” I bite out in between thrusts, my hips pistoning into her, knocking her roughly against the countertop now sticky with champagne.
“You took your own sweet time getting here, Dix,” she pants, her breathing now as rough as the rhythm we share, which becomes ever more ragged as we lose complete control.
“Well, I’m here now. Let me make it up to you.” Removing one hand from where it’s squeezing her hip, I slide it up her torso to pinch at one taut nipple, rewarded with her cry as her legs suddenly lock behind my ass and her body freezes in position, the burst of fulfillment breaking across her face like a rogue wave that washes unexpectedly on the beach, wiping away everything in its path.
I’m mesmerized by the raw lust in her expression as her eyes fall to half-mast, but stay focused on mine. A few more sharp, deep thrusts and I tumble over the edge, following her to deep-felt satisfaction. Leaning forward, I collapse over her body, pushing her ass backward until she’s settled firmly on the counter again.
Fingers feather lightly through my now damp hair as she murmurs softly. “We really have to stop meeting like this.”
Chapter Four
Dixon
Present Day
A light chittering sound breaks me from my reverie as my shirt pocket begins to pulse. Looking down I watch two bright eyes as they poke out of my breast pocket, the tiny nose twitching and scenting the air in search of food. Reaching up, I lightly caress the head, scratching lightly under the chin as tiny paws grasp for purchase before latching onto my cuff and bounding up my arm to chirp at me from my shoulder.
Reaching into my jacket pocket, I break off a piece of the granola bar stored there and watch Squeazel race from my shoulder back down to my hand to nibble on the feast offered. Smiling to myself again, I wonder how I ever gained custody of a chipmunk as a companion. They’re not particularly known for their love of human companionship but Squeazel seems to have missed that memo. As pets go, he’s pretty low maintenance; I was certainly as surprised as anyone the day he found me.
Flashback - 1 year earlier
I was hiking in Oak Creek Canyon, trying to hide from my demons, when I stopped by a stream for fresh water to soak my bandanna. I thought a bird was trying to capture my attention when I saw him huddled under a bush, his fur dusted in red from the surrounding rocks, eyes gleaming brightly and focused intently on me.
Holding out my hand, I expected him to scamper away immediately, instead he made a beeline in my direction just as a hawk dived overhead looking for prey. Making a cave of my hands, I quickly scooped him into a pocket, watching the sky as the hawk circled predatorily several more times, wings outstretched, searching for its next meal. As he finally flew away, I gently reached into my pocket only to realize that a chipmunk was busily gnawing on the trail mix stored in the cheap Ziploc bag. Trying to carefully ease him out of the bag, his little claws scrabbled for purchase, hooking into the fabric and refusing to give way.
Shrugging, I let him eat his fill as I dipped my bandanna into the cool water of the stream, swiping it across my sweaty neck and forehead time and again. Only an idiot hikes the canyons of Sedona at mid-day when temperatures have risen above one hundred degrees but my body is, if not immune, comfortable with the blowtorch of heat that characterizes summer here. I grew up in these mountains, I’ve tracked and traced paths and trails since I was a kid. It’s part of the reason I fared so well in the Middle East with the Engineering Corps while others cowered in the rare blooms of shade that could be found.
When the frantic pawing in my pocket finally eased, I reached in again and tried to lift the small chipmunk out of my pocket to release back into the wild. Once again, he stubbornly dug in, refusing to leave the haven of my pocket. In my most coaxing tone, I tried to reason with the small, furry creature.
“It’s time to go little runt.” Stubborn, beady eyes stared over the edge of my pocket while the small nose twitched. “Come on. Don’t you want to go back to your burrow?”
A rapid chirping emitted from his small mouth as if arguing the logic. Shaking my head, I gripped more forcefully only to feel small daggers pinch my hand before jumping to my shirt and scrabbling up the front to perch on my shoulder. Trying to twist my head to see the intruder, the rapid-fire chirping alternated with a clicking sound, while little feet stamped frantically on the fabric of my shirt. Deciding he would probably run once I got back into motion, I ignored him while finishing the water in my bottle before carefully climbing to my feet. Instead of leaping to the ground, he scrabbled back down the front of my shirt, diving once again into my pocket.
Is this what my life had become? Lonely wandering in the desert with animals flocking to me like some freaking Snow White?
“Well, little runt, if that’s the way you want it you’re going to find yourself far from home.”
With that, the chipmunk dropped fully back into my pocket as if agreeing to go along for the ride and I gained a new companion.
Having finally worn out my body enough to quiet my mind I headed home, stopping at my Mother’s place for my weekly check in. The expression on her face was priceless as I began to take off my shirt, only to have a chipmunk jump from my pocket to my shirtfront and race to my shoulder again.
I’ll give it to Martina, it’s hard to knock her off her stride. Standing with her arms crossed and her head cocked, her silver hair pulled back in a messy knot, she looked like a hipper version of Diane Keaton in her off the shoulder white peasant blouse. Soft, multi-colored palazzo pants swirled around her generous hips and platform cork sandals which gave her the inches she said the universe deliberately shorted her. At the age of seventy, she still turned heads. Without missing a beat she looked at me and asked the obvious.
“Why was there a weasel in your pocket?”
Staring at her helplessly, I shrugged my shoulders. “Because it wouldn’t leave? And it’s not a weasel. It’s a chipmunk.”
Okay, this was a completely ridiculous conversation. Irritated I realize that, even at seventy, she could still make me feel not like a man of forty-two but a boy of twelve, caught with his hand in the cookie jar before dinner.
Staring at me with a wistful expression, it was as if she was also still seeing the boy of twelve rather than the man in front of her.
“Well, you always did like something soft to squeeze when you were unhappy. Remember that raggedy stuffed rabbit? You never put it down the year your Dad left.”
“I’m not unhappy, and that was thirty eight years ago!” I protest only to be silenced with ‘the look’. The one that all mothers get when they think you’re being ridiculous.
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