by Tina Pollick
“Oh,” she breathed.
Jackse set a plate before her. Vegetables from the hydroponic gardens and grains mingled with bits of meat, sat in a spicy sauce. He’d made his specialty. Just for this conversation or just for her? She wasn’t sure, and didn’t want to ask. “Eat. You might need your strength.” The hunger in his gaze took her breath away. It’d been so long since her husband had looked at her that way.
“I hope so,” she said and picked up her fork. She dove into the meal, noticing Raul and Jackse each had heaping plates. They ate in silence and soon with empty plates, got back to the topic at hand. “When were you going to tell me?” That was my first question. Not that bringing Raul to her doorstep and into her bed—even now she wanted to repeat the afternoon’s activities—was a bad idea. It was, however, a bit awkward that her husband hadn’t mentioned knowing the soap star or their history. Was else did she not know about him? And did it matter? He loved her. It shone from his gaze, and he reached across the counter to cup her hand.
“I wasn’t sure there was a good time. Then I was working such long hours. You deserve this. You deserve someone to cater to you, to show you that you are the brightest star in his universe. I thought sending Raul here with my blessings would be enough.” To his credit, Jackse looked chagrined.
“You’re not upset at the offer, are you?” Raul reached for her other hand. “I should have introduced myself sooner. I blame it on production schedules and confidentiality clauses. I couldn’t have made the offer without revealing things I couldn’t about the show.”
Raul would be leaving As the Station Turns. She took a moment to contemplate the show without him and couldn’t. Surely it’d go on. Other big stars had left and the show had continued. She’d miss seeing him on her screen every afternoon, except she’d actually have him in her bed. She shivered. “It’s a lot to think about.” She nibbled on her lower lip as she thought. Both men’s attention focused on the movement. Oh, that could take a bit to get used to. Her nipples hardened.
“Take your time,” Jackse said.
She shook her head. “I don’t think I need to. It’s unconventional and it’s not what I’d ever thought would happen, but if the future will be anything like this afternoon, I’m for your offer. Yes. I’ll do it.”
“Thank goodness.” Jackse leaned over and kissed her.
Anya melted into his kiss, the warmth and familiarity as arousing as the fact that her husband was already reaching for the belt on her robe.
“I’m glad. I’m going to check out my apartments. I’ll be back later,” Raul said.
Jackse ended the kiss to nod at his friend. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure she isn’t too tired.”
“Too tired?” She drew a steadying breath, then grinned. “I look forward to seeing you soon,” Anya said. “And not on my vid screen,” she added with a wink.
Raul gave a salute and then headed for the door.
Anya turned back to her husband. “Really? You knew him when you were in college?”
“I did. Shall I show you some of the things I learned.” Jackse stood, then helped her off her bench. Her robe hit the floor before they reached the bedroom door and by the time they were to the bed, both of them were naked.
Anya laughed as her husband tumbled her to the mattress. She was so ready for this new chapter with her husband, and with the man who starred in her favorite daytime show, now her very own daytime lover.
The End.
If you enjoyed this, try:
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Fire Within
By
Nulli Para Ora
Some suffer in silence, some grapple with invisible torture. This is dedicated to those who keep putting one foot in front of the other even when it hurts. A special thank you to J.T. for all your valuable insight.
****
Karen lay in bed and stared at the far wall. A half dozen canvas were tacked there, each depicting an unfinished piece, each a reminder of her old life. Every brushstroke was like a knife in her chest, and yet she couldn't take them down.
She held her hand up, blocking two of the paintings from her sight. How often had she taken the use of it for granted? The control? The freedom?
Her condition robbed her of everything she was. They had a name for the disease. She called it insidious. The doctors called it fibromyalgia.
Pain became a constant companion. Flare ups appeared without warning. Where she once gripped a brush with delicate precision, her knuckles protested even the slightest movement. It hurt to move, hurt to breathe.
It hurt to live.
A painter who couldn't paint. A broken artist still trying to come to terms with the fact that there was no outlet for the creativity inside her. Her themes were always military, depicting battles of times past, and present. What she wouldn't give to declare war on her sickness.
Her general practitioner filled out the forms to get her handicapped tags. Too bad the public at large didn't mind their own damned business. Whenever she used a reserved space, any and everyone would look down their noses at her with disgust. Some took it a step further, walking up to her, wagging their fingers in her face, yelling that she should be ashamed.
How dare she take a space from the truly disabled?
They couldn't see a physical abnormality, so she must be faking it. They couldn't feel the crippling pain in her legs when she walked. They didn't hear her silent pleas for strength to take the next step. They judged her, called her names, harassed her, keyed her car.
"Guess I was just as ignorant as they are. Never thought something like this would happen to me." Sure, she'd heard of the disease, even knew a person with it, but nothing could prepare her for the life-altering experience of developing the disorder.
The pain was one thing, but the randomness of it was something else entirely. Stub a toe and hours later she felt it everywhere. Catching a cold proved to be a new level of misery. The brush of clothes against her could turn into millions of pinpricks. Some days her body was ultra sensitive, others, closer to normal.
She'd even turned into her own weather vane. Storm fronts and temperature shifts manifested in her body as deep nerve pain long before the elements or climate shifted. Then there were the mind games. She'd started forgetting things. They called it, "fibro fog."
The voices of several nurses replayed in her head. "You cannot sit for more than fifteen minutes or you'll start to lock up. Get up, stretch, and try to move around."
Did they know how much it hurt to walk around? Had they tried getting out of a chair during a flare up? Fibro didn't just hurt, it was an energy vampire too. Fatigue and heaviness surrounded her like blankets. The only thing that soothed her was heat. Thank the Lord for the creator of the heating blanket. If heat was her vice, Epsom salt was her crack cocaine. Soaking in a tub of the stuff became the things dreams were made of.
Her reaction to touch was the reason she laid alone. A simple hug became a nightmare. Greg stayed with her for awhile, but seeing her burst into tears from his lightest caress must have worn on him. Or it could have been the fact that they couldn't have sex the way he wanted to anymore.
He apologized.
"I just need more from a relationship than this."
He left.
Deep down she couldn't blame him, but it didn't take away the sting of having her husband walk out on her after six years. "In sickness and health. Yeah, right."
Fibro made her slow to heal. Guess they could add emotional scars to the list too.
****
Lancing pain in Karen's shoulder yanked her from her slumber like a bouncer throwing out a rowdy patron. She strained to look at her alarm clock. It was the middle of the afternoon, but one glance out the window at the tar black sky provided the answer for her rude awakening. "Not another storm."
Her legs protested when she swung them over the side of the bed. H
ad someone exchanged her limbs for two ton weights? Sure felt like it. The walker next to her bed sat waiting, still unused.
"Stop being stubborn."
Greg used that line often enough, back when he thought he was helping. He didn't get it. How could he?
She was a grown woman. No, she didn't want help getting up. She didn't want anyone asking what she'd eaten, or if she'd gone to the bathroom. She sure as hell didn't need someone telling her to accept her condition and move on, thank you very much dear ex-husband.
By the time she'd trudged into the bathroom she was out of breath. Her lungs burned, her joints radiated pain all over her weary figure, and her bladder threatened to explode if she didn't do something fast.
After using the bathroom, she pulled another blanket from her linen closet and ambled back into her bedroom. The sudden spray of raindrops against the roof and windows beat out an uneven rhythm just as she turned on her heated blanket. The tinkles of rain, the sight of pregnant, clear drops of water, they used to soothe her, even inspired sketches and paintings.
Not anymore.
The plopping drops hissed at her, taunted her body with the promise of more pain as even the sky above spat down at her. She crawled back into bed. The fabric of her pajamas rubbed against her skin like sandpaper, another discomfort, another comfortable ally turned traitor. A quick tug, and the faint air of floral scented dryer sheets invaded her nose as the covers settled over her head.
The formless abyss of sleep couldn't come soon enough. She shut her eyes to the world and waited while those soothing waves of electricity-generated heat sank into her aching body.
"Karen?"
Her lids popped open. Her heartbeat changed to something closer to a jackhammer. The voice called out from far away. It was deep, male, and it wasn't Greg. Is someone in my house? She trained her ears, committing the static of the heavy rain to the background.
Silence.
"Nicely done. Freaking fibro." It wasn't enough to invade every part of her, but she was hallucinating now too? Slow, deliberate breaths helped to calm her as she concentrated on the feel of the air passing in through her nostrils and out between her slightly parted lips.
"Karen, take my hand. It's not real, sweetheart."
Every muscle in her body tensed. She couldn't breathe, couldn't move. Whoever this man was, his voice resonated through her as if he was right behind her. Heat bloomed at the center of her back and spread like fingers over her skin. Did he just touch her?
"Think. Remember who I am. You know you can trust me."
Trust him? She couldn't even breathe. How did he get in? The security alarm didn't go off. How does he know my name? She lay unmoving, waiting. A crazy person has broken into my house and now he's going to stab me to death.
"Won't you even face me, sweetheart?"
The man had only spoken to her four times in her life, but his last utterance was tinged with emotion. Was it disappointment? Sadness? Is this when the stabbing would start? Somehow, she convinced herself to breathe. If I don't look at him, he won't have a reason to kill me. I won't be able to identify him. At least that's how it works on TV.
But this wasn't TV, and if the man planned to attack, he certainly took his sweet time.
"I know the pain you feel, the helplessness. This is not the life you're supposed to be living. I know it sounds crazy, but this isn't your real home. You've been trapped in another realm, Karen. Please, take my hand."
Aching hands pressed into the mattress as fear and curiosity warred for dominance within Karen's battered body. The heat at her back increased, caressing her muscles. She turned slowly, not out of caution, but because her muscles and joints had stiffened.
After gaining enough leverage to push herself around, she looked at the intruder and her eyes went wide. The man standing next to her was unlike anyone she'd ever seen. He stood tall, smiling with full lips and eyes the color of softly glowing embers. A scar ran down from his left eye to his cheek. His broad nose balanced his strong chin, and silvery curls framed his face, swaying and undulating in the feature that left her breathless.
The man was on fire.
Gentle flames flickered and curled around his entire body, but he wasn't consumed, and there were no signs of burning. Her gaze moved over his entire form, at first in shame.
The man didn't have a stitch of clothing on.
Not that he needed to wear any. His body was long and lean. Sculpted arms met a defined chest and torso. Like his face, his body showed signs of old scars. Powerful legs balanced on bare feet, and she was certain he never felt a moment of doubt about the member resting between his thighs. Michelangelo's David had nothing on... Who was he? What was he?
"You're on fire."
His answering smile sent flutters through her belly. Her insides felt gooey and warm, and her cheeks infused with heat.
"I'm not on fire. I am fire, and so are you." He took a step toward her. The light he generated dazzled her. Some unknown instinct forced her to stretch her hand out to him. He interlaced their fingers and gave them a squeeze.
Her bedroom disappeared into an amorphous void of white. Gone were the scents of stale potpourri, fabric softener, and recycled air. She held on tighter to the stranger when the support of the bed disappeared from beneath her. Weightless in endless light, tethered to a man of fire.
Either her fibro fog had leveled up or she was having a horrible reaction to one of her meds. None of this is real. Just go with it. Who knows, maybe he'll inspire a painting if I can hold the brush for a decent amount of time.
The light surrounding them intensified until Karen had to shut her eyes or risk blinding herself. The sensation of a solid surface under the soles of her feet stimulated her enough to open her eyes, and when she did, her jaw dropped.
She stood in the middle of what appeared to be a valley. Rolling hills dotted with flowers sculpted the land. Volcanoes erupted in the distance. The temperature was blissful, balmy, and humid. But much like the man holding her hand, none of it was normal. Every petal, every blade of grass, they were all made of flames of varying colors.
"This is where you belong, Karen." He gave her hand a gentle tug and turned her around.
An entire city stretched out in front of her, complete with buildings made from flowing lava. People encased in flames meandered through obsidian streets, naked and seemingly carefree. "What is this place?"
"Scoria." He pulled his eyebrows down and met her gaze. "I'm sorry this happened to you, but you'll remember everything when you get your fire stone back. Come on, Iet's go get it. It's in the grand pyre."
She looked back to the city toward a large, swirling column of fire extending from the ground to the sky. With so much burning around her, she couldn't believe the air was free of the smell of charred earth or smoke. Each breeze delivered fresh, clean wind to her lungs. "Who are you?" She followed without hesitation. Something about the excitement in his voice when he talked about this fire stone made her feel at ease.
"I'm--" He paused. The flames around his head rose higher and burned just a bit brighter. "I'm Emmerich. We're close to the pyre."
"What's a fire stone and why is mine in a pyre?" If she was going to go along with this delusion, she may as well ask a few questions.
"Our fire stones contain our sparks. Without them, we lose our flames. When that happens, we grow ill and cold. Our bodies start to hurt all the time, especially in the joints. Heat soothes us because we recognize it. Salts make us comfortable because they're part of the land here. The decline is painful and slow. We suffer until—"
"Wait. Are you trying to tell me my fibromyalgia is because I'm missing some stone?"
"Karen, everything will be clear soon, I promise. Just a little farther." Emmerich walked a little faster.
As they moved through the streets, the people passing by stopped and stared. Some smiled, others appeared overcome with emotion, while a few whispered, "She's back!" How could a city full of strangers react so strongly to he
r presence?
An enormous surge of heat pulled her attention from passersby and onto the swirling wall of flames just a few feet away. She stared into the inferno, its powerful churning hypnotized her for a time. The bright oranges, yellows, reds, and even whites of the fire roiled and billowed. Intense, tranquilizing heat pushed into her, and she closed her eyes to savor the experience.
This should be burning me. Why does it feel so good?
"Fire stones start to degrade if they aren't kept hot." Emmerich reached into what should have been hellfire. When he pulled his unmarred hand free, a smooth, sphere of shiny, clear stone rested in his palm. The object looked like glass and was the size of a marble. In the center, tiny sparks crackled and jumped, barely contained in the small chunk of rock. "Hold out your hand."
Was he serious? He may have been made of flames, but she wasn't. There was no way she'd take hold of that stone. "It'll burn me." Blood raced through her veins, her mouth watered. As much as her brain wanted to pull her away, her body seemed intent on moving closer.
"It will not harm you. You'll see. You recognize it, don't you? It's a part of you, the essence of you. Take it back." Emmerich held the bauble close to her and smiled.
Before she could talk herself out of the absurdity of the situation, she reached out and plucked the stone from his hand. A rush of heat swept up her arm as the fire stone sank into her skin. Flames outlined her hand and followed the path of warmth up her arm, over her chest, spreading through her body and burning away her pajamas and underwear.
And then the pain was gone.
Rejuvenated, invigorated, and now normal, Karen breathed deep and exhaled. Her body tensed as memories flooded her mind. Scoria, the ice wars, Emmerich. They captured him. I gave up my stone to set him free, but they tricked me. She stared at him for only a moment before she threw herself into his arms. "You escaped!"