But it was that same damn stubbornness to know everything about this woman fully that kept him trapped in line. As the cars pulled in close to those waiting to get on, and as each car filled up, he knew time was running out, and was almost tempted to shake some sense into her, but instead kept his hands clenched inside his pockets. Both of their stubbornness had both fates in hand.
"Yeah, sure, Flynt,” This is right up my alley.” Myrna could feel cotton dryness creeping up along the insides of her throat. Her mouth so dry, her lips stuck to her front teeth. She couldn't even smile or else look like a lopsided fool. All she could do was focus on the ashen faces of people just coming off the ride. Others laughed hysterically, no doubt from the sheer relief at being able to disembark. While others headed immediately toward respective restrooms—thankfully close by. She made a mental note to their location.
As the line grew shorter, her anxiety grew correspondingly longer. Not unlike like waiting one's turn inside a dentist office, dreading and wanting to get it over with as soon as possible. Words screamed inside her brain. Tell him who you are! You're not reckless. You're not a daredevil. Sheer abandonment was never your style. You're just a simple, quiet, unassuming laid-back librarian whose adventures are usually found in the nearest historical romance novel.
But the noise of the park and the crowd around them drowned her words.
Flynt took her hand, which she could've sworn felt as cold and clammy as hers. Soon nestled beside him in the very front car, they sat there, neither saying much, but Myrna swore she heard both hearts beating.
Slowly, the cars moved forward, making a slow ascent. The tracks fell beneath her as the car crested to the top and she felt the need to hold her breath. She felt Flynt's grip on her hand tightened and wondered if her blood supply was being cut off.
Then...
They plunged downward. The tracks fell sharply away. Wind whipped against her face, rendering her unable to breathe at all, and fear she'd faint from lack of oxygen, certain that she left behind her stomach, which was probably a good thing she thought considering the chilidog she'd just consumed. She opened one eye to look over at Flynt. Wondered if her face matched his, for his had turned a ghastly green. He'd released her hand and both of his white-knuckled were seemingly glued to the safety bar.
"Omigod! I think I'm going to be sick! I never should've had that chili dog,” he moaned.
"Stay with it, Flynt! This is like riding in a balloon,” she screamed, dearly hoping it was. “Right, Flynt! Tell me it's like riding in a balloon."
"Not exactly,” he moaned.
Myrna kept shouting at him, trying to get his mind off his stomach, praying the chili dogs and cotton candy stayed in place. Flynt's head hung over the bar as they made a quick jerk to the right, left, right, then over several loops that gave no warning. They dropped straight down just before making a sharp turn, followed by a plummet downward. The force pressed Myrna's body against his. One hand left the railing and one arm tightened around her. She buried her head in his shoulder. He buried his head in her hair. It helped some being surrounded by his solid strength, inhaling his warm clean scent. They both held on to the end.
As the car rolled into the station and came to a jerky halt, with unsteady legs, Myrna rose and wordlessly left the car, wanting to put as much distance between her and what she considered a near death experience behind. Flynt walked beside her, his arm a little too tight around her waist, and she had to wonder who supported who.
"Great ride, huh!” he said.
"Yeah sure,” she replied, with far less enthusiasm. “The ride was great, but ... I'm not so sure about the chili dog. Excuse me,” she added in a tiny restrained voice.
Myrna headed for the nearest restrooms where she hurriedly scooped handfuls of cold water and splashed them on her face. She waited a moment to test her stomach before exiting the ladies room. Tell him! No more bikes! No more runaway horses! No more roller coasters. You're not Adrienne.
* * * *
Myrna spotted Flynt waiting for her at an adjacent food concession. He was actually squinting up at the menu. When he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of glasses and put them on, she stopped. She'd seen the outline of his frames in his pockets, but had thought they were sunglasses. Something held her back as she continued to watch him, studying the way the glasses changed his appearance. Suspicion mounted when he darted a furtive glance around the area as he slipped the glasses back into his pocket. With a bright smile, and a lighter conscience about her own deception, Myrna walked over to him. He held out a paper cup.
"I thought maybe some soda might help."
"Yes. Thank you."
"I have to admit that roller coaster sure seemed a lot higher from up there than it does from the ground,” he admitted.
"The ground didn't move Flynt,” she said, as she sipped her soda, hoping that he'd had enough of these rides
"That's funny. I could swear it does move, Adrienne, every time you smile."
At those words, her heart did one of those little somersaults before landing back in place with a thud. Dismissing what she had seen earlier, with him and his secrecy about needing eyeglasses, she knew she liked this man. When he said these things, she knew there was sincerity in his words, giving her the impression that he liked her also. Yet, If she was right, then they'd both been building one lie upon another. How could they develop any relationship when neither really knew the other? It was easier for her, because she preferred the inept adventurer to the accomplished hero. But he only knew of Adrienne. And it was for her that he was placing himself in such awkward and embarrassing situations. Would he do the same for that mousy naïve sexually repressed librarian? She sighed and seriously doubted it as the afternoon sunlight and pleasure seemed to fade from the day.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"So how's it going?” Big J. boomed into a telephone line compelling Jonathan to hold the receiver several inches from his ear. He looked out the window at the glimmering waters of the hotel's pool below. He'd been thinking about taking a dip, but had decided against it. Bad decision. He would have missed his grandfather's call. “It's going great."
"You two getting along?"
Jonathan could almost hear his grandfather taking a puff on that cigar he'd probably just lit. He thought about the past several days’ adventures that had him embarking on activities he'd once sooner avoid. “Yeah, we're getting along just fine.” His butt still ached from the horseback riding. He had made an appointment the night before for a therapeutic massage that had helped some.
"See what did I tell you? Life's too short to be holding grudges."
"Yeah, that's what you told me all right.” Jonathan wanted to blurt out about the charade, and the strange woman who'd assumed Adrienne's personality. But suddenly he knew if he did that then his grandfather would be calling his old buddy, Adrienne's father, and the whole thing would be thrown wide open. Suddenly he didn't want that happening, at least not yet. He wanted to have a bit more fun with this woman. See just how far he could take it. Besides that he wanted to wear the identity of Flynt Adams a while longer. He liked the way people looked at him, sometimes with awe, sometimes with caution. He wanted the kind of respect a man like Flynt Adams generated, especially from the redheaded woman who falsely called herself Adrienne Bennett.
"So, you think maybe something could happen between you and this little lady, like how soon am I going to hear church bells—"
"Granddad, I'm not promising anything. What happens, happens.” Big J was in for a big disappointment. Jonathan knew, he was no closer to presenting an heir to the Wetherall name than before this trip. The only thing he could tell his grandfather at this point was that after disclosing the farce, their lives could return to normal. He saw himself sitting behind his big oak desk, shoving that ashtray across the blotter, his secretary rushing in afterward, spraying everything in sight with deodorizer.
He thought of how his life would resume, bringing back in that same certainty, same monoto
ny. He thought of the women he dated, all looking to connect, yet unwilling to take risks. The bedroom was a means to a secure future, rather than enjoying the pleasures that such a place offered, where every fantasy could be played out.
It left him with a funny taste in his mouth. Suddenly, he had to wonder just how bad it would be if one day he presented Big J that grandchild—heir to the Wetherall fortune.
* * * *
Something woke Myrna from a dead sleep. It was too early for the alarm. She realized it was the shrill ringing of the phone at the ungodly hour of two a.m.
She groped and grabbed for the receiver, the adrenaline pumping through her as she imagined untold horrors behind the call.
Why else would any call at this time of morning unless an emergency. She mumbled a greeting, recognized Adrienne's voice and quickly pushed herself to an upright position, swiping away at her face pushing back the hair out of her eyes.
"Adrienne! Is that you? It's the middle of the night. Nooo, it's actually morning ... early morning. Is something wrong?"
"I couldn't wait any longer to call. I just had to find out how you and Wetherall are getting along. I was going to wait until the end of the week, but my curiosity keeps getting the better of me. Plus I've been lying here unable to sleep. I'm suddenly feeling bad about the whole thing. I'm thinking maybe I should come home and simply take my punishment. I should've never had you get mixed up in all this. I should've known better. It wasn't fair to put this on—"
"Adrienne, stop it, will you! I couldn't tell you how your Mr. Wetherall and I are doing, because your long lost nerd never showed his cowardly face. You were right on target about that creep. I know I should've called and let you know, but well let's say I got a little distracted.” She didn't want to go into Flynt Adams yet. “Can you believe it? Your Mr. Wetherall actually stood me up. Uh, no, let me rephrase that. Because it was you who he stood you up. Jonathan Wetherall the Third stood you up. Of course now he'll never know that you weren't actually there, now will he, because he wasn't there? So I'm not sure who's gotten the best of whom. It's all rather confusing, wouldn't you say?"
"Stood me up? Myrna, that's impossible. How can that be?"
"Easy, he wasn't there at the airport. You weren't there at the airport. He's not here now. You're not here now. I think the term is touché."
"But I called my father last night in case he got suspicious and called the house. He told me Jonathan is having a great time out there with you. I mean with me. At least that's what he's been telling his father, who's been telling my father. So I don't get it. Something's not right here."
"I don't get it either, unless...” Suddenly the thought that she'd been the one to be made a fool of whipped around her like a coiling lasso. She could feel the rope tightening around her neck and pictured herself slammed to the ground with a grand old thump before becoming hogtied.
"That's not something I really wanted to hear, Adrienne, but since I have, tell me what are we doing for him to be having such a great time?"
"Well let's see. He said something about riding motorcycles. And horses. And roller coasters. It's hard to believe, because Jonathan was never good at lying about anything."
Chills chased up and down Myrna's spine as things started to come together. “Then I think it's a newly acquired skill, Adrienne."
"What are you talking about? What's going on? What have you been doing? And most importantly with whom?” Adrienne asked, her voice rising with obvious curiosity.
Myrna hesitated to respond. Did she actually want to go into it? Tell Adrienne what actually occurred out there at the airport. Tell her she had essentially picked up a man, a stranger, assumed Adrienne's personality, then proceeded to live a life that at one time she only dreamt about. “There was this man in the airport lounge. He introduced himself as Flynt Adams from Albuquerque. He wore jeans and black leather and cowboy boots and he wore a Stetson and he even had ... has a beard. It's absolutely ridiculous, yet if his hair was shorter and you put tweeds on him and glasses...” Glasses? She thought about that day at the amusement park. “He probably looks like your Wetherall friend, because he fucking probably is Wetherall. I think he was on to us from the beginning."
Myrna's heart sank to below sea level. It was all a farce. Everything bit of it, remembering the sex. None of it real. Especially the sex. She had joined the ranks of Ho's, no longer the type men married, but instead had become those ladies of the night, that men paid little attention to after they were through.
"You're kidding! Are you telling me that Wetherall actually has the guts to be able to pull something like that off?"
"Yeah, it looks that way. I think we underestimated Jonathan Wetherall the third. He actually got ahead of you and planned his own little lark."
And that's all she was to him, Myrna decided—a lark.
"Or the more appropriate term—revenge,” Myrna clarified. “For some strange reason he figured you or I wouldn't recognize him, and passed himself off as the Marlboro man incarnate. It really does get complicated."
"Flynt Adams you say. Well I'll be damn. I didn't think the nerd had it in him to pull a stunt like that, especially on moi. Why I'm almost ... impressed."
"Easy for you to say, since I've been the butt of his joke on all counts.” Myrna could feel a sudden heaviness come down on her and wanted to sink back into her bed, pull the comforter over her, never resurface until the next millennium.
"So Myrna, what are we going to do about our imposter?"
Myrna grimaced. Since when had this become a joint venture? Adrienne hadn't wasted any time in skipping town and leaving Myrna to carry out a plot that was way over her head. A diabolical plot turned more than a simple practical joke. She was getting really tired as if she were playing a perpetual game of tag, always the one tagged! “Well, since you missed all the fun, I'll consider that adequate revenge. As for Flynt Adams, aka Jonathan Wetherall III, I think he deserves a dose of his own medicine. Only this time, I'm going to call the shots."
"What does that mean, Myrna? What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to hang up now, Adrienne. Enjoy the rest of your vacation. And please do not hurry back. Make sure you wear that sunscreen. They're forecasting a pretty hot week coming up."
Myrna gently replaced the receiver back into its cradle and frowned at her reflection in the mirror doors of her closet. A stranger stared back at her. Mousy Myrna never looked like that, all tousled, angry, and determined. She smiled at herself and that, too, was different. A confident smile. For once in her life she was going to take a chance. She was going for the gold. She was going to play for keeps, and if it didn't work out at least she'd have the satisfaction of knowing that she tried.
Flynt Adams wanted to know her dark fantasies. Well, she had several she had not yet confessed.
She thought of the leather outfit hanging in Adrienne's closet. She had been a little shocked by it, yet the other night she had tried it on and it fit just right.
She pictured Adrienne in that outfit, holding the switch to Art Wagner forcing him to do her bidding.
Then her eye caught the Armoire ... and she remembered its contents. Suddenly it became clear what she needed to do. No holds bar. Play it out to the hilt. She'd read enough erotica, that she knew exactly what she needed to do. She needed to take control. But, would he let her?
CHAPTER TWELVE
Adrienne had called earlier to ask Jonathan over, suggesting they stay in tonight. He actually welcomed the idea; at least his aching body was posing no objection to it, knowing that he could use the night to simply relax, maybe watch a DVD, and order out for pizza.
Jonathan approached the apartment door. He knocked a couple of times before a sultry sexy sounding voice from the other side replied and told him to come on in.
Cautiously, ignoring the unsettling feeling that had started to stir inside him, he turned the knob, opened the door, and walked inside.
The first thing he noticed was the low lighting, bare
ly making out the furniture, let alone the supine form of a woman nestled into one corner of the sofa surrounded by pillows.
"Adrienne?” Jonathan called out softly.
"I'm over here."
Jonathan drew closer. “Yeah I see.” The uneasiness settled further into his gut guessing pizza was not on the menu tonight.
Adrienne patted the sofa cushion, signaling him to sit beside her.
"I brought some of that wine you like,” he said.
She smiled at the knowledge that he remembered.
When he kept staring at her, she asked, “Do you like the outfit?"
He blinked, confused, noticing she wore black leather on black leather. “Well ... yes ... I guess,” he replied.
"I've been saving this ... for tonight,” she told him.
He blinked again. “Tonight?"
"Yes,” I feel you and I have gotten to the point where we can play this thing out to its fullest, where we finally explore all our darkest fantasies. You did once ask me to trust you.” She paused, fingering the leather laces holding her corset together. “And I did."
"I know,” he said softly.
"Then, let's go on to the next chapter.” She stood, the soft fleshy mounds of her breasts practically spilling out of the fitted black top. “I need you to trust me. I want your unequivocal consent that what we do here tonight, you will follow through from beginning to end."
He stared at her, trying to comprehend her words. Suddenly a gleam of full understanding flashed into his eyes. “Frankly Red, I didn't think you had it in you.” His grin widened considerably.
"Which goes to show how much we still have to learn ... about each other. How much more there is to explore ... and experiment,” emphasizing the last word.
He put the bottle of wine down onto the coffee table. “Okay, then whatever you have in store for us tonight ... I'm okay with.” Strangely enough the words didn't dissipate the unsettling feelings inside him and they continued to rise.
"Good,” she said, and with two well-manicured hands she held up a long black silky scarf. “Then let the games begin. First, we put this on!"
A Case of Mistaken Identity Page 9