by Alana Davis
Bonds of Attraction
by
Alana Davis
Copyright © 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Copyright © 2013
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Warning: This work contains scenes of graphic sexual nature and it is written for adults only(18+). All characters depicted in this story are over 18 years of age.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 1
The office was empty. I sat at my desk, looking through a new client’s folder with idle fascination. It’d already been a long day and I was determined to make it longer. When I thought of leaving the office, I couldn’t think of anything to do or anywhere to go. Eventually, I’d have to leave. But for now, I could still lose myself in my work.
As I studied the contents of the folder, I ran my fingers across the fine wood that had been carved into my desk. I had pushed the desk against the window when I moved the company into this office so that I could feel the warmth of the sun against my skin while I worked. It was dark outside and the flickering lights of Los Angeles reflected off of the window. I couldn’t remember when the sun had set, or if I had even watched it. An internet radio station was playing music that I wasn’t really listening to, but through the high-quality speakers that I’d spent way too much money on, whatever was playing sounded great. Lines of color moved across the computer screen in geometric patterns.
I looked up from the sheet that chronicled the client’s dating history and rubbed my eyes. My assistant, April, had gone home for the day. A ceiling light shined down on her empty desk, cleared of everything except for the computer that was turned off. Her chair was pushed in and awaited her return in the morning.
April had popped her head in my office before she left to let me know it was her time to hit the road. She had politely asked me if there was anything else she could do for me, and I’d pleasantly told her that I was fine. We said our goodbyes, and that was it. Our interactions were always strictly professional. We always said our hellos and goodbyes, but the small talk was next to nothing. We never discussed what we did out of the office or our personal lives. For all I knew, April was married with kids or part of some polygamist cult.
I knew that April was a good secretary. I knew that she came into work on time, was organized, and followed all the instructions I gave her. And that was enough.
Having had enough, I rose from my seat and took the folder back to the filing cabinet. When I returned to my desk, I picked up the pile of wedding invitations that April had placed on my desk earlier that day.
There were at least a dozen invitations. Some of the names looked familiar, others a complete mystery. I never attended any of the weddings I was invited to. Frankly, I didn’t mind them but these people were simply clients. I made no friendships through my work and I didn’t hold much sentimentality. I understood that a lot of my clients held me in high regard since they credited me for helping them find their “soul mates”.
April would place a stack of them on my desk at the end of every week. I didn’t know why I still had her do this, despite the fact that I always had her send them back with the unfortunate news that I’d be unable to attend. If a client called to personally invite me on top of the invitation, which often happened, I’d throw an extra hint of sadness in my voice as I gave an excuse like I was going to be out of town that day.
The real reason was simple: I’d rather be working on creating more weddings and happy customers.
I held one of the invitations in my hands and carefully studied it. At this point, I’d received so many of these invitations that I could’ve opened my own store that specialized in creating wedding invitations. This invitation was exquisite. It folded open to reveal a small bow attached to the fine paper that was lined with cursive writing. On the bottom of the invitation, I noticed a small website URL, rachelandbrian.com.
Curious, I woke my computer up from its slumber and typed in the address in my web browser. I couldn’t remember the clients by their names, and when a picture of them popped up on my computer screen, I still didn’t remember them. I studied their faces carefully, trying to root through my brain for even the slightest hint of recognition. Nothing came.
They were an attractive couple. Perfectly suited for each other, I thought to myself. I let a little smile of gratification spread across my face as I studied the picture carefully. They were both smiling big white toothy grins. Brian had his arm around Rachel, holding her close as they stared into the camera, their heads leaning against one another. They both looked happy. They both believed themselves to be in love.
Just like a child is happy when he believes Santa leaves him presents on Christmas Eve. I took out the RSVP card and marked that I wouldn’t be attending. I placed it in the postage-prepaid envelope and laid it next to the pile of unopened invitations.
I closed the website. I found myself wishing that I could remember Brian and Rachel. There were just too many clients to remember them all. But while they were my clients, they had been all I thought about. Romantic algorithms turned over in my brain when I studied two people that I felt could work as a couple.
Of course, physical attraction came first. The couple had to meet each other’s standards. When you sign up for a matchmaker, you expect the matchmaker to at least come through with a prospective mate who is going to turn you on. But it has to be more than just physical attraction. Simply setting up two people who were on the same plane of physical beauty wasn’t enough to create the spark that would then turn into a long-term relationship. I wasn’t in the business of creating hookups; I filled a greater need. The need that everyone has felt before. The need for a partner.
I picked up another invitation and smiled when I recognized the names on the back of the envelope. I opened it and pulled the card out, studying it carefully. It was nice, not quite as elegant as the previous one, but still very respectable. I remembered the groom well. Upper management type. He was keen on meeting the perfect girl that would make a great wife. “Old-fashioned” is what he called himself. The bride, a trust-fund girl who was seven years his junior and had gone to college “for the experience” rather than an actual education, was a perfect match. She wanted a “real man” who she could be the perfect wife for as they built a life together. In other words, she wanted someone to pay the bills and he wanted someone to cook the meals.
Another website was written on the bottom of the card. I didn’t bother to type it into my browser. In a few years, he’ll grow tired of her bickering and constant expectations. The life of a stay-at-home wife won’t be nearly the easy ride she expected and she’ll start to resent him for depriving her of exploring he
r own interests, although she didn’t have any interests outside of marrying a man who was wealthy enough to provide her with a cushy life. Maybe he’ll have an affair, she’ll get fat, or maybe both will happen and they’ll go through a bitter divorce. If they’re lucky, they won’t have any kids before that happens.
The RSVP pile grew slightly. Before long, I had filled out more and more cards until the pile was taller than the stack of unopened invitations.
I reached the final invitation and opened it. A magnet telling me to save the date fell on my desk. I picked it up and studied the picture of two smiling people with a pit-bull in the middle of them. The dog was adorable. I remember the couple vividly. They were each clients of mine two months ago. Both were eager to marry the right person, settle down, buy a house, have kids, and grow old with their loved one. He dreamed of being a photographer while she aspired to start her own business. In a few years, their dreams would go unrealized if they lasted long enough to have kids.
I licked the envelope that I put the RSVP card into and wondered who would keep the dog when they got divorced.
I picked up the pile of declined wedding invitations and began to straighten them in my hands, bouncing them against the desk. My eyes wandered along the flat wood until they stopped on a photograph of my parents swinging me between them. I studied this picture often, and each time I stared at it, I became more and more convinced that it was the perfect representation of my relationship with my parents. Always in the middle of the two of them, being swung back and forth, pulled by opposite forces. They both held my hand tightly, not wanting to let go, each bound to the other through me.
I knew that there were other pictures in the middle drawer of my desk. I could put up the recent photograph that my father had sent me of him and his third wife. They’d looked just as happy as the picture of him and his second wife. There was also a picture of my mother with her fourth husband in my drawer, sitting in the woods with two small dogs that were remnants of her second marriage to a stockbroker who had a penchant for small dogs and slutty secretaries. My mother’s words, not mine.
My parents spent my entire childhood looking for love that they’d never find. I figured out from an early age that marriage and love were mutually exclusive. Three marriages for my father and four marriages for my mother, and that didn’t even factor in girlfriends and boyfriends who didn’t last long enough to become ex-wives and ex-husbands.
Now I was spending my adult life finding love for people. The irony. Yet I couldn’t complain. I was grateful for a successful business, and was careful to never be bitter towards my profession, regardless of my childhood. Sure, I was selling people something that I didn’t even believe to be real, but it wasn’t important what I believed—only what the client believed.
I opened the drawer and pulled out the photographs that I kept there. I sorted through them slowly, studying the faces of my parents’ former spouses. It always amazed me that my parents didn’t burst out laughing every time the priest said the words “until death do us part”.
I looked around the office. It was getting late and I was long past done for the day. The clock confirmed it for me immediately. I got up from my desk, tossed the photos back in the drawer, and picked up the pile of rejected wedding invitations.
I closed my office door, studying my office one more time before I killed the lights. The office was decorated with a minimalist mentality. The art on the walls was plain, but interesting when you studied it. Satisfied, I turned off the lights.
I felt tense and my back was sore. I’d been sitting for too long. I tossed the rejected invitations on April’s desk as I walked out. Outside, the night was refreshing, but the feeling of sitting at my desk and going over every wedding which I was sure was going to end in disaster was still on my mind. I got in my car and couldn’t shake the feeling. Rather than let it fester, I decided to take action. I’d go to the gym and get out all the frustration and stress of the day. Knowing that I had made up my mind on where the rest of my night was going to take me, I already felt a little better.
I turned up the music in my car to a near-deafening roar and sang along at the top of my lungs. It felt good. When I pulled into the gym parking lot, I was ready to break a serious sweat. It was getting late and I hoped that the gym would not be completely desolate. I normally didn’t mind an empty gym, but tonight I wanted some company while I worked out.
Inside the gym, I walked with my bag slung over my shoulder as I scanned my surroundings. A man covered in muscles that were exploding with veins lay on a bench, pushing up huge dumbbells as he grunted loudly. A young girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen, was next to him with tiny weights that could have doubled as paper-weights, doing curls. A few middle-aged men trying to combat the growing mass that had become their stomachs were doing various exercises on the machines.
I continued on towards the women’s locker room and looked over to the treadmills and elliptical machines. They were sparsely populated with people watching television or bobbing their heads to their iPods. In an adjacent room, a bunch of women and a couple of men were in a spin class. It was a typical night at the gym, nothing interesting.
Then I saw someone who was very interesting.
He leaned against the squat-rack, breathing heavily. He wore a cut-off t-shirt that was an old and battered band shirt, probably from his younger days of bouncing around local music shows and dive bars. He lifted a bottle of water to his lips and drank greedily as a bead of sweat fell down the side of his face. Then he turned and noticed me. We met eyes briefly before I turned away and walked into the locker room, making sure to accentuate my hips as I turned my back to him.
Inside the locker room, I thought of the unnamed man who had briefly caught my attention. I slowly peeled away my clothes, imagining his hands undressing me. I looked in the mirror as the last piece of my underwear fell off and I was naked. I could picture him drinking in the sight of my naked skin and the tension in the air would become unbearable for both of us.
I was alone in the locker room, but I knew it wouldn’t last, so I put on my sports bra and slipped into my workout clothes. They were tight, form-fitting clothes that accentuated my figure by not getting in the way of my curves. I turned around and examined myself in my cute outfit and felt satisfied. I had curves, and darn it, I felt proud of those curves. A real man didn’t want some stick figure. I nodded my head to myself and walked out into the gym, water bottle in hand and towel thrown over my shoulder.
I walked over to the area next to the cardio machines and began to stretch. Looking in the mirror, I spotted the guy from earlier; he was good-looking, really good-looking. I reached up to stretch my arms and let them fall before me and grabbed my ankles. I knew that the mirror behind me would show my ass to anybody who had the good sense to try to steal a look. I could almost feel his eyes doing just that.
I shook my body out, jumping up and down to let the blood flow to my muscles. I wondered if he liked the way my breasts bounced with every small jumping-jack that I did. Smiling, I walked over to an empty treadmill and began to run.
I put on my headphones and turned up the volume to drown out the sounds of my feet smashing against the treadmill. My breathing became faster with every passing minute, and I felt a thin layer of sweat forming on my skin. My muscles burned as I pushed myself harder and harder. I drank tiny sips of water and closed my eyes, the stress of the day leaving my body. But I knew that there was something else that could help relieve the stress even better.
I opened my eyes to look for him. He was sitting against the wall, leaned over and doing curls. I watched his arms ripple with muscle as he pulled the weights up to his chest. He was muscular, but by no means an obsessive bodybuilder type. No, he was much more lean and athletic. I bet he was strong, not only explosive strength but the type of strength that lasts. He’d have the stamina for tonight.
I let my eyes linger on him just long enough so he could catch me staring. I turned my eyes down and smiled
coyly, making it clear I was flirting. When I looked up again, he was returning the smile. It wouldn’t take much to get this guy to take me home with him. There was no way we were going to go back to my place; I never brought guys home with me. My sanctuary was off-limits to strangers.
He got up and returned the weights to the rack. He shook his arms out and stretched. I could imagine him walking over to me, wiping the sweat from his brow. He’d lean against my treadmill and stare directly into my eyes.
“Hey,” he would say.
“Hi,” I’d reply.
“I want to show you something, it’s a great workout. I’ll be your spotter.”
I’d kill the treadmill. He’d slide his hand around my lower back and guide me over to a bench, close to a mirror. Then he’d pull off his shirt revealing glistening stone abs, just begging to be touched. I’d restrain myself, but then I’d notice that he’d grown hard in his gym shorts.
The whole gym would be watching us, eagerly awaiting.
“You can’t do this exercise with clothes on,” he’d say.
I’d pull off my shirt quickly and then his hands would break their restraints and tear off my sports bra, ripping it from me with such force that I’d let out a little yelp of surprise. He’d drop to his knees and pull off my tight workout pants and then he’d lift me up. I’d feel his muscles flexing against my naked skin and my eyes would close involuntarily.