Endless Abduction

by Gloria Martin

  “I need it to be more than one night, Tara. And I tried to tell that to you. I meant it. Some words I can’t say. I don’t know how. Intellectually, I can make billions—emotionally, I’m not so sure. When I get a text in the middle of the night that my business might fold beneath me, I have to drop what I’m doing. No matter what. Even if I’m with the woman that I’m madly in love with.

  “What I found out when I got to the office was terrible news, that one of my close friends and partners, Martin O’Leary, stole some very valuable software that was supposed to go live this week so that he could start his own company. The software was initially his idea, and he didn’t like the route that I took with it, and now it could cost me everything.

  “I trusted a lot to this man, only for him to turn around and stab me in the back. He used my name and success to fund his project and now that he has what he needs, not only is my investment gone, but also my future. And now let me answer two of your questions from earlier with one answer.

  “You asked me about Danielle, my previous chef, and how she was poisoned. Danielle was a close friend, as well. She was the only chef I ever had. And to answer the heart aching inside you: no, I was never with her. I was never with any of my employees, even Jill, who is in love with me. They are all in love with me, Tara, but I didn’t want it to be that way. I hired them professionally, and they work professionally. Yes, I have a strong rapport with them because I need them and depend on them. But you are the first woman I have been intimate with in years. I know you may not think it, but to a man like me that means a lot.

  “I know that in your head you’re doubting every word I say. Just let the wine course through you. What you’re cooking smells delicious. I prepared for your arrival by stopping at the farmers’ market. You know that I love my eggs scrambled white with spinach and I’ve never even told you.”

  One hand on the pan, one hand on the spatula, Denver stands behind me, placing his soft lips to my neck with a quiet pucker. I’ve waited for this for so long. Touch me, baby, I think.

  “You were saying, about your friend?” I ask. I don’t want him to get too far off topic, and I need to know what happened to this woman. Taking his lips away, I hear him sip from the wine glass. He opened a bottle of chilled Sonoma Coast chardonnay, which is perfect for this hot California morning.

  “I made the mistake of letting our friendship become too known, and it was used against me. You asked me if I was kidnapped, I assume one of the girls told you about what happened with Olecki. Yes, he’s in prison now, but they could never confirm that he poisoned Danielle. I hired the best investigators in the city and nothing came up. The case is still open, Tara, and it haunts me every day. But does that mean that I cannot love, or move forward? I don’t want you to feel threatened, but at the same time I’m afraid to let you get too close to me. I don’t know what could happen.

  “If I trust anyone in the world, it’s the women I hire to surround me. Danielle kept many of my secrets and protected me in ways I can’t even begin to explain. Maybe with a little more wine and a few miles away from the coast I’ll tell you. But already, you’ve begun to develop secrets of your own and we’ve known each other less than a week. I realize that, but I also know that I’ve never felt this way for a woman, and that must mean that this is true love.

  “So here I am, Tara. I keep this place in Simi so that I can hide away sometimes. I have an empire. But I also am starting to lose everything. Do you think it’s worth fighting for? Or should I run away? I’m not expecting you to answer these questions, I just want to let you know the conflicts going through my mind. I could run away with you right now and we could live comfortably and never look back.

  “Or we can stay and clean the pallet with my company, and with you by my side I know that I can make the necessary changes to put my life in the right direction. Listen to me. I should learn to hold my tongue more.

  “But I can’t hide my feelings, Tara. I know this is it. You were put into my life for a reason.”

  Now that breakfast is finished, plated up, and on the kitchen table, one half of me wants to eat because I’m starving, and the other half has lost its appetite and wants to get into another bottle of chardonnay because Denver is starting to get really deep.

  “It looks amazing,” he said. “You’re the best. Seriously.”

  A simple compliment like that can make a girl’s day, and the best part is I don’t think he realizes that it makes me want him so bad. “You have another bottle of this stuff, right?” I ask

  He smiles wide. “Bottles and bottles,” he says. He pulls out the chair for me before going into the other room to get more chardonnay. I take this as an opportunity to breathe in and appreciate my life, even though I have no idea what is in store for me with this crazy dilemma. The smell of my omelets with oregano, spinach, and parmesan lingers in the air. The walls in the place are painted a casual maroon, which would look horrid in any other place. But here it feels like the kind of place I want to cook in forever. The center-stove island is only an added bonus.

  Denver returns with our glasses both full. “Do you mind if we just enjoy this?” he asks. “I’ve been looking forward to dining with you all morning, and to know that you prepared this meal is like a spiritual experience for me.”

  Although this is what I’ve wanted someone to say about my food my entire life, I didn’t expect it now and am thankful for my dark cheeks, otherwise he’d know I was blushing hard.

  He takes his first bite, closes his eyes, and chews while he breathes in. While he swallows he stares right at me. “Thank you,” he says. “This is marvelous,” he adds, taking a sniff of the chardonnay before sipping his glass. Knowing that he’s pleased, I take a bite hastily. Just my luck in his next bite he’ll get an eggshell, so I have to make sure my food is absolutely good. At the same time, the chef in me always hesitates so that I can offer mine to whom I’m feeding in case something is wrong with the food.

  I’m a damn good chef, but nobody’s perfect.

  ***

  Surprisingly, we finish breakfast and the one left over portion while getting into a third bottle. I’m pretty buzzed, but the food and toast helps absorb everything. With my stomach full of food and wine, I’m about ready for a nap. Denver sits back with his hands resting on his belly, nodding at me. There’s nothing like knowing that you satisfied your man’s hunger.

  “Wow,” he says. “I have no idea what to do next. Normally I don’t have time to actually sit down and enjoy my food. On a regular day I would have had to be back at work thirty minutes ago. It was just enough food. Not too much. And the flavor.”

  “It’s the peanut oil,” I say, remembering that when we met I served a similar omelet to his colleague with a peanut allergy. He smiles, fondly remembering the moment.

  “That was hilarious,” he says. “You should have seen your face when you ran into the room.”

  I remember being completely embarrassed and in all actuality I probably looked like a fool. But if he saw something good in that, then there is definitely a lot more to this man than most.

  “I felt so dumb,” I admit.

  “You should never feel like that around me, Tara,” he says, standing up and walking over to my side of the table. “Would you like to come upstairs and relax with me for a little while? I just want to enjoy the morning and afternoon for as long as we have it.”

  Looking up to him from my seat at the table, with his hand extended to me, I decide that I’m going to spend the rest of my life in this quaint Simi Valley house. Okay, maybe that’s an overstatement. But as I put my hand in his, and admire the yin yang of our collision, I let him guide me to the stairs where I clutch him tight with every step.

  *****

  The upstairs of the house has four bedrooms and two bathrooms, one in the master bedroom. Why he would need so many rooms, I wouldn’t know. My only assumption is there is room enough for his “employees” if they need to stay.

  Don’t think negativ
ely, Tara, I tell myself. It’s only going to ruin this perfect moment. Denver’s hand still in mine, he takes me to the room farthest down the corridor. The upstairs walls are painted a dark, forest green. Looking into each bedroom I pass, I see that they all have their own color schemes. The room Denver takes me to is themed with the color purple—so many shades of it, but primarily dark, almost black.

  “I like it in here because it’s easy on the eyes,” he says. I see that the curtains and shades are drawn so that barely any light enters the room. “Would you like to lie down with me for a little while?”

  The room is simple—a chair, couch, television, lounge area with table, and one large, cushiony bed. Realizing that this is the innermost and central room of the house, one could also make a lot of noise without being heard outside. That could come in handy.

  “Sure, stretching out would be nice right now,” I say, adding to the direction I hope he’s going in.

  “It might get a little hot in here,” he smiles, lifting his shirt up over his head.

  Those muscles, though…

  “Denver, you’re like really sexy,” I say. Tara, shut it! I’ve had four glasses of chardonnay too many.

  “This is just what I do to keep sane,” he says. “I have a lot of energy pent up.” With a body as chiseled as his, he must spend hours and hours working on it.

  “How long did it take you to get that sexy?” I ask, kind of joking but in all reality wanting to know because I’m self-conscious about my lack of definition.

  He laughs at the joke and says, “This took about ten years. I’ve been doing business for about that long. I get lonely and listen to audio books while working out. It helps keep me sane, and the adrenaline also keeps my body alleviated of tension.”

  “So who was the last woman you had in this purple room?” I ask. “Or was it a different color then? Dark pink? Blue like your eyes?”

  Yep, Tara, I think, you’re definitely tipsy right now.

  “I’m glad to hear that you’re letting go,” he says. “I hope that it doesn’t require a little wine every time. I want to know the real you, Tara.”

  “The real me?” I repeat. “The real me is I don’t know. The real me is whatever. The real me wasn’t even sure until I saw you, and even then I almost lost control.”

  “Are you losing control now?” he asks, setting me down next to him on the dark purple comforter. It’s smooth, velvet.

  “I want to lose control and I want you to take it,” I say. “I want you to take control. But I’m confused. Because all of this has me tripping. Your money has me tripping. You think this is normal? This isn’t normal. And maybe your money has made you lose sight of what’s normal.”

  I think I’m trying to be profound but I know that my tipsy tongue is probably slurring itself stupid. With the velvet comforter beneath my palm and fingertips, I feel him place his hand on top of mine. It is gentle, reassuring.

  The sun tries to break through the royal purple curtains, but only leaves a misty beam in the room, resonating on our skin. “I don’t know if you realize this,” he coos, “but you’re the only woman I’ve been with for years. I know it is probably counter intuitive, but I actually don’t prioritize my sex life or my love life. It’s something that has slipped through the cracks over the years.”

  “And what about now? Are you going to let me slip through the cracks?” I ask.

  “Never,” he says, leaning forward, leading with his lips. I meet him in the middle and press my open mouth to his. Our tongues slide against each other in a rush of panic, desperately needing to tie into one another. We lick and lick until he slowly pins me back, and we just kiss as time passes transparently. Every so often our eyes open and we gaze into each other, caressing one another’s skin with our fingertips gently. I feel so young right now, kissing this man, like it’s forbidden, or new, or like I’ve never kissed before in my life. Usually I just want to jump the gun and get right to it but with his stubble brushing against my face I could tickle his back for hours.

  He puts his hand under my shirt and navigates every corner of my torso—the areas below and above my naval, my hips, my breasts, my collar bones, my shoulders, my nipples, and the thigh bones protruding upward as I pump my hips toward him. “Tara, tell me how you feel about me,” he says. “Don’t hold back. I know that we barely know each other, but just tell me, stream of conscious style.”

  Stream of conscious? What is this, beat poetry?

  I laugh and answer, “I think you’re a fucking dream come true,” I moan, his tickles sending little bumps all over the surface of my skin. “I think that I never thought I could be with a man like you. And to be honest I never thought I’d be with a white man. Or a man with money. Damnit, Denver, this is crazy. Why do you want to know all this?”

  “Because I need to figure out where I stand in your eyes.”

  His tone is serious, his blue eyes locking into me. “It’s not stupid,” he says. “Society makes us think ridiculous things. Why can’t I love you if I want to love you? Why can’t I take you in my arms and dance with you in public? Why can’t I make love to you until the sun comes down, and if I walk out of my bedroom naked, don’t have to feel weird if one of my employees knows you’re inside?”

  “Denny, I can’t be your employee and your woman,” I say. “I told you this last night. I just can’t.”

  He exhales hard, aiming it at my neck. Nibbling on my right ear lobe, he undoes the button of my pants. “You’ve got me between a rock and a hard place,” he says.

  “That’s exactly how I felt when I was standing out in Malibu with the ocean on one side, a cliff on the other, and your stupid Benz right in front of me. Are you trying to make this all as theatrical as possible?”

  I’m trying to invite him into me and get some answers at the same time. A woman’s got a do what a woman’s got to do.

  “I’m not trying to be theatrical,” he says, successfully exposing my hips to the cool bedroom air. “It might seem theatrical, but in all drama and comedy their lies truth. ‘The world is a stage’, to paraphrase Shakespeare.”

  “I know it’s Shakespeare,” I say. “I’m not dumb.”

  He shakes his head, more at himself than at me. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s my ego and my programming. Every day I run a corporation and I need to tell people what to do and how to be and what to think. I’m trying to break the habit.”

  “Try harder,” I demand. And I’m not joking. While I admire his intellect I don’t want someone who makes me feel like I’m stupid.

  “How did you get here, Denver, and why?” I say, impersonating one of the southern actress servers from Harvest Bar. “The garden walls are high and hard to climb—they’re fatal, if you should be the one to climb them and anyone find me afterward.”

  He doesn’t respond—again, neglecting to respect my intellect.

  “To paraphrase Shakespeare,” I said. It was the only part of Romeo & Juliet that I remembered from my college English class.

  “I know that it’s Juliet,” he says, hopping over my legs so that he can yank my pants down to my knees, down to my ankles, and off my feet. “I’m sorry, okay?” he says, kissing my anklebone. His lips trace my leg up to my knee and into my inner thigh—which is when I start to shiver.

  “Denver, just give it to me slow, baby,” I plead, “let me feel you, okay? I missed you.” I feel like last night was years ago. I realize that I’m wearing the same panties as last night—practically the same outfit—but he can’t blame me. It’s his fault that I’m in this stupid predicament.

  “I want to take you in slowly, Tara,” he says. “I haven’t been able to get you off my mind for hours. You have no idea.” His hand cups the entirety of the folds between my legs—he does not yet penetrate me, but he holds me softly.

  “There is one thing I need to know,” he says. “If I didn’t have money would you still feel this way about me?”

  I release myself from the warmth of his hand and lean to
wards him so that we’re eye to eye. “First of all, I’d want to fuck you as you are, money or no money. Secondly, you’ve been good to me. That’s all that matters. Keep being good to me and I’m yours, and when I’m yours I’ll stick to you like glue.”

  “That’s what I want,” he says. “I want you to stick to me. I want you by my side. I want this to be real. I want to be the kind of man you need.”

  “Then don’t want to be it,” I say, running my fingers through his thin, pillowy hair. “Just be it. That’s all. And then you have me. For as long as you want.”

  “I want what I had last night and more. I want you in every way imaginable. I want you in every city. I want you in every hotel. Every day.”

  “I don’t know if I can keep up.”

  “Then we’ll hire a chef and say fuck the world,” he scoops me up and my legs swerve around him, taking him in a strong hold. Now I’m the one fidgeting with the button of his pants. His hot skin is against me, I feel the muscles through my shirt.

  “Take everything off, Denver,” I say. “Get me naked. Get you naked. Do this. Right now.”

  I can’t wait, and I hate that I get so impatient.

  “What happened to slow?” Denver jokes. He’s got me there. I can never put my money where my mouth is.

  “Okay, do it slow, but do it fast, and take me all in, but now at once, at least at first,” I say, my words all astir and my muscles trembling everywhere. I can’t even think straight, it’s like my fingers won’t listen to my brain. All I can do is breathe in his skin and feel him against me, scraping my bare legs against his once his jeans are all the way down.

  “Take off your underwear, Denver,” I say.

  “I’m not wearing any,” he smiles, and he takes his hand, hooks my underwear with his finger, and shoves his hard cock into me, causing my eyes roll back and a giddy squeal to escape.

  “Denver, no you didn’t!” I scream. The shaft in me pulses and all I can do is moan awkwardly, flailing my hands everywhere, trying to hold onto to his muscular back. Yes, yes, yes.