“No, God no. Nothing like that. I was never married.” He cleared his throat and continued, “However, my real name is Jack Trotter, and I’m not a private investigator. I’m a detective in the Narcotics Division with the Santa Monica Police Department.”
“Oh, what a relief. I thought you were going to tell me I was simply a one-night stand. And that you never wanted to see me again.” Amber sighed.
Relieved she was not pissed about his deception. “I can assure you everything last night was honest, and real. I meant it when I told you I loved you. And I am hoping this is a start to a long and lasting relationship.”
He gently brushed her hair from her forehead. “You make me feel like I’ve never felt before. I don’t feel…empty any more. I feel so alive. For the first time in my life, I feel like a man. I do love you…very much, Amber.”
“I know exactly what you’re trying to say. I feel the same way, as if I have a reason for living now. I guess this is what love’s supposed to feel like. And I guess I finally feel like a mature woman.”
Trotter pulled her close. “God, I love everything about you. You are so beautiful.”
“And I love you, too…Mr. Trotter,” she teased. “I can see why you had to lie about your name and especially your occupation. Your secret identity is safe with me. I won’t report you to the Queen of Mean.”
“I’m glad you understand.”
“And,” Amber continued, “I think it’s a good idea that Amy doesn’t know we’re seeing each other. Just to be her spiteful self, she would try to break us apart. She can’t stand to see me happy.”
“I couldn’t agree more. It amazes me to no end how you two are twins, but yet, you two are like night and day. Sort of like that good versus evil thing.”
“It’s been like that my whole life with her. Even when we were little girls, she had to be the center of the universe. I can’t wait till the day comes when I’m financially secure enough and I don’t need her anymore, when I can move to a place where I can be myself…no disguises,” Amber rattled on.
Trotter pulled her close. “I promise you that I’ll take you to that place someday.” He gave her a kiss. “But for right now, I’m going to take a shower and then we’ll grab some breakfast. Capiche?” He smiled.
“Si Senor.” Amber joked.
Trotter was in the shower, shampooing his hair, when Amber slid the glass door open and stepped in. Nude, of course. “I thought you might need your back washed.” She soaped up a washcloth and gently began to wash his massive, broad shoulders.
Trotter froze in ecstasy as she lathered up his tight little ass, then she reached around to his front with a bare hand and lathered up his balls and his manhood. “Turn around so I can wash your chest,” she instructed Trotter. He immediately obeyed. Using the soapy washcloth, she washed his muscular chest while her slippery torso slid back and forth across his penis.
She hung the washcloth on the door handle and put her hands behind his neck. “Pick me up so I can kiss you, Stud!” She ordered with hungry eyes.
With ease, he lifted her one hundred and fifteen pounds. She wrapped her legs around his waist, kept one arm around his neck, and used her free hand to guide his stiff member into her. Warm water from the showerhead splashed off the two lovers as they embraced. He raised her up and down on his shaft. Amber had both hands clasped around his neck now and was using her arms to match his rhythm.
Within minutes, they both climaxed; washed each other with soapy washcloths, rinsed and got out.
“That worked up an appetite!” Trotter said with a smile, drying off.
“Boy! I’ll say!” Amber agreed.
“I don’t have much here in the way of food,” Trotter informed her. “We’ll have to hit an IHOP or someplace.” “Ohh, pancakes sound great to me.”
* * * *
“Fucking little bitch!” muttered Judy Sloan, enviously watching Amber get in the Porsche, as Trotter, the gentleman, opened the car door for her. “Lucky little slut.”
After their delicious breakfast of blueberry pancakes, orange juice and sausage, Trotter felt as though he could conquer the world’s problems. Even the sky did not appear as huge; instead, it was as if he could reach up and pluck a cloud for his woman. Years upon layered years of sexual frustrations, embarrassment, and the continuous gnawing feelings of inadequacies had peeled away. Replaced now by love, contentment, and the physical releases in the manner God has so superbly designed, solely for the intimate pleasures a man and a woman to have the privilege to enjoy, and share.
Remembering a line, either sung in a song or written in a book, but that very simple line states, "For every someone, there is a someone." Trotter realized he had found his someone. Amber empowered him to be the Ruler of the Universe, where everything would be perfect in his own little Utopia, because she was the one woman who could not only loves him as he is, but he now possessed the abilities to excite her with his caress and satisfy her physical desires of the flesh.
Trotter knew in his heart that a woman has the natural, and sometimes all too powerful—gift—to soothe a man’s fragile soul. However, just as he witnessed between his parents during in his childhood years, the God given gift of a woman could also act like a double edged sword. The endowment also held the overwhelming ability to drive a sane man into the raging hell of his own insanity.
Trotter could now grasp why brothers have slain brothers; all for a woman’s touch. And how the painful absence of that once familiar and exciting touch, especially if combined with condemning and crippling words spewing from her once desired lips, possesses the lethal power to dwindle an otherwise sensible man down, way down, beyond his deepest blackest abyss, down to the point of no return, to his sobbing, drooling suicide.
He furthermore understood how a son could actually murder his own father. The very man who gave him life, for Christ’s sake! Why? Simply so the murderous son may claim title to being the sole proprietor of that woman’s bleeding heart.
Moreover, the reason why countless countries through the ages had battled ferociously in wars is now ever so plainly evident—one dangerously powerful man’s attempt to quench his unquenchable thirst for a woman’s warm embrace, to please her, satisfy her, and protect her. All the while wanting nothing more than winning and possessing her love while seeking her approval.
Alas, the brutal slaughtering of tens of thousands of less powerful men hailing from his now ravaged and burning countryside is but a mere pittance, to be paid, by the victor—for the fair maiden’s hand.
Yes indeed, Trotter could now feel, and completely understand, the divine power of that gift, known simply as ‘woman’ upon exiting the restaurant.
As he holds his very own woman’s tiny, delicate hand, firmly in his.
* * * *
One month later, one more concert was off the books. Amber and Trotter relaxed poolside. The only difference between concerts, Trotter noticed, was the city. The concerts, the stoned kids, and Amy, are always exactly the same. Held in Denver, the latest concert painfully reminded Trotter why he left Iowa. It was too cold for his tastes. It was early autumn and it did not matter if the snow was man made and on slopes far off in the distance; it was still frozen precipitation. He even spotted several white tail deer grazing in a pasture on their way to the Mile High City. All memories of the past he wanted to keep in the past.
Maybe because Jonny was different, but he was the only person who sensed there was something going on between Trotter and Amber. On the way to Denver, while fixing Amber’s hair, he giggled. “Girl, you are just absolutely glowing! Who is the lucky man?” As he raised an eyebrow toward Trotter.
“There’s nobody, Jonny. I just eat more veggies and seafood now. And I try to exercise regularly,” Amber lied.
“I could never be a strict vagitarian,” he amused himself, and looked directly at Trotter while speaking to Amber. “I’m a meat and potatoes kind of man, if you know what I mean. I only eat fish once in a while.”
&nbs
p; Trotter had scowled back at the fat, gay young man while biting his tongue and keeping his temper in check. This asshole is paid to touch Amber. Christ Almighty. Trotter wanted to rip the fag’s head off his shoulders and shit down his neck, but he knew Amber would probably frown upon such violence. Therefore, he just sat in silence while fuming inside.
“Denver is a beautiful city, but I would not want to live there,” Amber reflected while applying Coppertone to her already beautifully tanned skin.
Trotter reclined in an Adirondack chair beside her, wearing his tight yellow trunks and sunglasses. “I did not care for The Mile High City either,” he agreed.
“The high altitude sure did give Amy a reason to get smashed, though, didn’t it?” Amber stated. Her twin, same as the last concert, was still sleeping it off in the back of the bus.
“Any reason is a good excuse for her to get stoned,” Trotter added. “I particularly didn’t have a hard time breathing there.”
“Me neither, but we didn’t sing for three hours.” Amber laughed, and Trotter joined in.
“When we show her today’s headline in the paper, she’ll have a real good reason to celebrate,” Trotter stated.
The front-page headline in The Santa Monica Daily Press read, ‘Three major drug dealers arrested.’ Mug shots of Blaze, Grasser and Chubby, all looking very unhappy indeed, were next to the article.
Trotter let out a loud, hearty laugh. Then he looked around to make sure nobody could hear him talk. He leaned toward Amber, and in a low voice, said, “You should have seen the look on Blaze’s face when I tasered him. He hit the floor like a ton of bricks. For such a big man, he screamed like a little girl.”
Amber joined in the laughter. “I can only imagine that. I knew Blaze would never be taken down easy. He was always so arrogant, and he probably thought he was above the law.”
“Then at the precinct, I had to taser him again. He was resisting arrest and trying to escape. Facing forty years in the pen made him a very hostile sum bitch.” He thought back to that day with a grin on his face.
After Trotter secured Blaze in his cell, he had waited until they were alone, and then told Blaze through the bars, “I’ll tell Fontaine you said ‘Hello.’ We’re leaving in an hour for her Denver concert. You behave yourself now.”
“Up your ass, Motherfucker! You tell Fontaine she can suck my dick!” Blaze screamed back. Trotter laughed, and left; but he made certain Blaze heard when he told Officer Miles, “If that big bastard gets out of hand, taser him again, Gary. He seems to like it.”
Officer Miles, of Scottish descent, was the cop in charge at lock up; being a very small statured man, he admired and idolized the much bigger Trotter. “Yes, sir, Detective. I’ll definitely taser our guest if he gets out of control. You can count on that.”
* * * *
Amber and Trotter played ball tag for an hour, and had just gotten out of the water when Amy came out the sliding door with her tomato juice, holding her head. “How in the fuck can people live in Denver? My head’s pounding from the lack of oxygen.”
“Lack of oxygen?” Amber laughed, and then taunted her twin, “You sure it wasn’t an overabundance of…Tanqueray?”
Amy mocked Amber’s laugh, then whipped her the bird while sucking her tomato juice through a straw. She then joined them at the table.
“Here.” Trotter tossed the paper to her. “The headline will make you forget about your hangover, uh, I mean headache.” He smiled at Amber who returned the grin.
Amy focused her eyes on the paper and read aloud, “Catholic priest guilty of raping altar boy.”
“The headline above that one, you drunken bimbo,” Amber snarled at her pathetic sister, and rolled her eyes.
“Three major drug dealers arrested?” Amy asked.
“Duh, yeah!” Amber said in a very disgusted tone. “Do you recognize anybody in those pictures?”
“Wow! That’s Blaze, and Grasser, and Chubby. They’re all in jail. That will teach them to fuck with me. Fontaine!” She spoke, as if it was her and her alone that made the arrest, putting them behind bars.
“That’s right Amy. You showed them,” Amber mocked her.
“God damned right I did,” Amy agreed.
The next act scheduled to go down was Micky and his Freaks. Trotter hoped the knife wielding sum bitch would also resist arrest. However, Trotter was not planning to use a taser. He felt as though Micky still had one coming, and he wanted to use his bare hands on that scumbag who humiliated his woman.
“Jack and I are going out for a bite to eat, care to join us?” Trotter’s eyes widened and a puzzled look came across his face at her question. They had made plans on Trotter cooking tonight at his place. Amber knew very well, what her sister’s response would be, though.
“No thanks. I’ll be lucky to keep this juice down. I’m going to stay here and laminate this front page. This is way too cool.”
Trotter felt instant relief, and Amber winked at him. Amy had no clue of the bond, or the lovemaking her sister and Trotter had been enjoying for the past six weeks now.
Amy went inside; Trotter and Amber changed into dry clothes. As usual, Amber had to don a disguise to leave the estate and enjoy a peaceful evening.
Walking to their cars, Trotter asked, “Ever drive a ‘68 Ford Mustang that eats Porsches for lunch?”
“There’s no such Mustang that will eat my Porsche for lunch. But just to amuse you, I’ll drive your old clunker,” Amber appeased him. Smiling, he tossed her the keys and then opened the car door for her. After they both got in, Trotter suggested they put on their seat belts.
Amber keyed the six hundred plus ponies to life; there were no telltale sounds of the power tucked under the hood. “This car doesn't even sound fast,” Amber stated. “And it’s an automatic. Everybody knows four speeds are faster.”
With one foot on the brake pedal, and not touching the gas, Amber put the car in reverse; the Mustang lunged once the gears meshed. “Is it supposed to do that or is something broken?”
“Everything on this car is fine. That’s just how much power this car has,” Trotter warned. “Go easy on the accelerator till you get the feel of it.”
Once out on the four-lane, Trotter remembered what she had told him when he drove her Porsche for the first time. “This car was made to drive, punch it!”
She did. The six hundred ponies kicked in and the Mustang launched from fifty miles per hour to one twenty in a matter of seconds. The G forces pushed Amber back in the seat. “Holy shit!” she exclaimed, “Do you have a rocket engine under the hood?” She let off the gas and let the car slow down to the speed limit.
“Just good old fashioned American muscle,” Trotter bragged. “And a super charger.”
“I like it!” Amber stated, and then nailed it again. “Wow! If this car had wings, it would fly,” she said, as the car hit one twenty again.
“Yes it would, but it doesn’t handle like your Porsche. Slow down for these curves.” Trotter instructed. She complied, and the tires squealed as they hit the turn at seventy miles an hour in the posted forty-five miles per hour speed limit. “It will get away from you.”
“Yeah, I can see how,” Amber, shaken a bit, said. “Okay, I admit, your Mustang might give my Porsche a run for the money.”
Trotter knew better and laughed. “Yeah, right!”
She parked Da Stang in Trotter’s parking spot at The Oasis and they went in. Trotter turned the Oldies Channel on the stereo, and Amber let her hair down. Then he proceeded to cook Shrimp Scampi while Amber touched up the lyrics to a new song she envisioned, “When Angels Fly.” Her intentions were to put the words to a light rap beat for a female singer, or even a girl’s band. She thought it would be so fantastic if The Beach Queens would sign this mix as theirs, on a royalty basis. That would be sweet revenge aimed at her sister’s negativity. Keeping up with current events, Amber predicted rap music to be a major player in the coming years.
The aroma of garlic, butter, an
d shrimp drifted into the living room where Amber sat on the sofa. She put her notebook and pencil down, and sauntered into the kitchen. Trotter was putting the linguine noodles into boiling water. “Smells great, Chef Trotter,” she told him, and put her arm around his waist.
“Too many cooks will spoil the broth,” Trotter teased, as he reached around her to turn the flame down under the shrimp sizzling in butter, garlic and celery. Then he opened the refrigerator and grabbed a head of lettuce.
When he bent over, she pinched his buttocks. “Ouch!” Trotter teasingly cried out.
He grabbed a towel, twirled it into a whip and began snapping it at Amber. “Out! Get out of my kitchen. Out. Scat!” he jokingly ordered while backing her out of the kitchen with the snapping towel.
“Good God. What a big meany,” she teased back.
“I just want this meal to be perfect, that’s all,” Trotter said. “If, and whenever, you cook a supper for me, I won’t pester you when you’re in the kitchen.”
“You just let me know when you’re hungry for Kraft macaroni and cheese or a pot pie.” She laughed, and went back to her song lyrics.
Thirty minutes later Trotter announced in his British accent, “Princess, your presence is requested at the supper table.”
Flames, dancing from two slender candles on the dining room table, made for a warm and elegantly romantic atmosphere. A bottle of Chardonnay, chilling in an ice bucket, added to the rather elegant table he had set. Caesar salads sat next to their plates of Shrimp Scampi. Warm croissants, in a basket, sat next to the ice bucket. He had neatly laid out his best silverware on napkins. Trotter even folded a piece of paper, and in his best cursive handwriting, he wrote on it, “RSVP – Princess Amber”.
“My, my!” Amber said upon entering the dining room. “You did a spectacular job.” Trotter smiled in appreciation and pulled her chair back.
Then she added, “It smells great.” They both sat and he poured them each a glass of the wine.
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