by Claire Adams
It’s a little tricky with Dane all over me, but I manage to slip off my pantyhose, and a moment later, I’ve got the front of Dane’s slacks open and he’s sliding my dress up my thighs.
I lean back against the wall and put one leg around Dane’s body, guiding him toward me.
He runs his tip against my opening, and I’m already so wet.
Dane puts himself inside and we let out a pleasured sigh together.
“You know,” Dane says, kissing my lips and neck, “we won’t be able to do it like this too much longer.”
“Shh,” I tell him. “You’re not supposed to know I’m pregnant. I’m not showing that much in this dress, and I haven’t told you that yet. I’ll probably wait until after you’ve got me to come a few times, so if you bail on me, at least I’ll have gotten something out of it.”
“You’re so fucking weird,” he says. “But I like that, whatever you said your name was.”
“Yeah,” I scoff between sharp inhales. “That’s attractive.”
I open the front of Dane’s shirt and kiss his smooth, firm chest.
“What does this tattoo mean?” I ask, pulling him tighter with my leg.
“It means ‘virile warrior,’” he answers.
I smack him on the chest, saying, “Oh, it does not.”
“Got it when I was 18,” he says.
“Gotta move,” I tell him. “Baby’s kicking.”
“Oh my God,” Dane gasps. “You’re pregnant?”
“Oh, shut up,” I say.
“Hold on, I wanna feel it,” Dane tells me.
He bends down and puts a hand on my stomach. Our daughter moves under his gentle touch.
“I really don’t think I’m ever going to get over that,” he says. “That is so amazing.”
The door to the bridal suite opens and Dane is quick to stand up. He’s facing the wall, but he’s still hanging out the front of his pants.
“Hey, you guys!”
Of course it’s Wrigley.
Dane mutters, “You wanna distract her a minute?”
I smirk. “We were looking for the bathroom. Would you mind showing me where it is?”
“It’s down the hall on your left,” Wrigley says. “So Dane, what are ya doin’ over there looking at the wall?”
“Oh, can we not do this?” he asks.
“It’s not like it’s anything I haven’t seen,” Wrigley quips. “I’m just kidding. I just wanted to let you two know that we’re going to be cutting the cake in about five minutes.”
“All right,” I tell her, “thank you.”
We hug.
I never thought I’d be so close with Wrigley of all people, but after hearing everything she did to help guide Dane and I together, all my enmity toward her dissolved.
“Thank you for everything,” I tell her.
“You’re welcome,” Wrigley says. “Thank you for introducing me to Mike.”
There’s the sound of a zipper going up, and Dane finally turns around.
“Five minutes, huh?” he asks. “Any chance I could talk you into making it 15?”
Wrigley and I both roll our eyes.
After the cake is cut and all remaining rice is thrown and the bride and groom are off for a weekend of marital debauchery, Dane and I get in the car for the drive home.
“You know,” he says, “I’m kind of glad you almost hooked up with that fireman.”
“Yeah?” I ask. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”
“Why? What?”
“Will,” I say. “You know, I see him in the store every once in a while, and I was thinking: I know we’re married and all, but maybe we could stand to spice things up a bit?”
“Darling,” he starts, “we just had sex in my ex’s bridal suite. I think things are pretty spicy as it is.”
“I guess,” I yawn. “Still, though, you’ve made all of my other fantasies come true. Even ones I didn’t know I had until you brought them to life.”
“Yeah, I’d say I’ve gone above and beyond,” he says.
“Meh,” I say. “You’ve done all right, I guess.”
“Oh, come on,” Dane protests. “I gave up my job in the city so that we could be closer together.”
“Tell the whole story,” I answer.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You know, the part about how l’Iris started doing so well after Wilks took over that Jim hooked you up with the seed money to start your own restaurant right down the street from where we live.”
“I hardly see how that’s relevant,” he answers.
He turns on the radio.
“Seriously? You’re still on the death metal?” he asks. “Isn’t that going to make our baby come out with hooves or craving blood or something?”
“Metal is closest in relation to classical music, and everyone knows that classical music makes babies smarter.”
“Oh, it does not. That was just a misquote, saying…” he trails off into laughter.
“Look,” I tell him, gazing up at the sky through the windshield.
“What?”
“The stars,” I tell him. “There are a lot of them tonight.”
“Leila?”
“Yeah?”
“I love the fuck out of you.”
“Thanks,” I answer. “Dane?”
“Yeah?”
“Have you ever given any thought to joining the fire department?”
He laughs. “I’ll be your fireman.”
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ESCORT
By Claire Adams
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 Claire Adams
Chapter One
The Last Time I Saw Me
Grace
“You’re not listening to me,” John Parker, my outgoing boss says, leaning back in his oversized office chair. “We just don’t have the kind of support we’d need for a move like this.”
“We’ll get the support,” I tell him. “It’ll take a little bit of time, but I’ve been working on this for a while, John. I know what I’m doing.”
I think he’s just pissed that he’s going and I’m staying.
I’m not too sure about the specifics, but I know that whatever the reason is that he’s resigning, it’s the kind of thing that could seriously damage our stock prices.
“Well, I know you’ve put a lot of time into this,” he says, “but we don’t have the resources, we don’t have the personnel. We don’t have the support, Grace. Ainsley’s not going to go for this unless you’ve got everything locked down tight, and we both know you’re not there yet.”
The problem is that I think we — that is, Memento Entertainment — should expand into additional markets. John, though, is of the old hat. He thinks that by staying small, we stay secure.
On the other hand, I think that staying small will only prevent us from growing to our potential.
“John, with a little investment and some good faith right now, we’re going to be in a better position to take on the big guys, and maybe we can stop being the station that people flip past on their way to NBC or CBS,” I tell him.
“You’re delusional if you think we’re poised for that kind of an uptick,” he answers. “I respect your ambition, I really do, but at some point, you’re going to have to learn to be realistic. Otherwise, you’re going to end up driving the company under, or, best case scenario, someone realizes that’s where this thing is heading and they’ll have no choice but to fire you before it gets that far.”
John and I have always had friction.
I gra
duated from high school early: three years early, to be exact. I was 18 when I graduated college with honors, and rather than do what Mommy and Daddy told me to do and go for a higher degree in a more respectable field, I decided to use my Bachelor’s in Communications to get my foot in the door.
I can always get a doctorate in something boring when I lose interest in media.
Anyway, I’m not sure if our friction stems from the fact that I’m smarter than John and he knows it or that he was pressured into hiring me by Ainsley, a family friend and CEO of Memento Entertainment.
It very well may be a combination of the two.
“I’m just saying,” I start again, “if we purchase a few stations in markets where we don’t yet have a foothold, we can lay the groundwork for a lot more down the line. I’m not saying it’s going to happen overnight, but if it doesn’t happen sometime soon, we’re not going to be around long enough to-”
“What?” he asks. “We’ve been around for nearly 50 years, Grace. If we were going to go under, it would have happened by now. You’ve got to realize that our business model works because we don’t take unjustifiable risks. That’s why we’re still here and why so many of our competitors have lost out to the bigger guys over the years.”
“I get that we’ve got longevity,” I tell him. “What I’m saying is that we could have longevity and profitability.”
“Oh, come on, Grace,” he says. “What kind of car do you drive?”
“That’s not the point, John,” I start, but he picks up before I can continue.
“The point is that you’re pushing for us to do something that we’ve never done, and it’s going to kill the company if any single part of your plan doesn’t pan out.”
“Oh, we’ve moved into new markets before,” I argue.
“After a great deal of careful consideration and planning,” he says. “We never dove in somewhere without knowing just how warm the water was going to be.”
It’s a stupid metaphor. He’s only trying to cover the fact that his work at the company has been marked by advising our CEO, Ainsley Winters, and the rest of the members on the board not to run before we can walk.
We’ve been walking twice as long as I’ve been alive.
Still, I’m not sure if it’s what he’s saying or the way he’s saying it, but my palms are sweaty and I’m struck by a sharp feeling of terror and panic.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” I breathe, but my throat has gone dry. “We need to do something, John. If we stick with the same old approach, we’re going to get the same old payoff right until the moment when one of those companies whose jingles people actually recognize swallows us up and you can say goodbye to Memento Entertainment.”
I reach down and pick up my purse.
“Where are you going?” he asks. “We’re not done here.”
“I’m not leaving,” I tell him, and grab a piece of gum. Out of nowhere, my mouth tastes like I just finished eating pennies and blueberry pie. It’s not a good mix.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asks. “You don’t look so well.”
We’ve done this before. We’ve had this exact conversation before, only I can’t actually place when it would have happened. The feeling, though, is overwhelming.
My mind races as I think back, trying to pin it down, but I can’t think of anything that would fit.
“What the hell was that?” I shout.
John’s brow furrows. “What the hell was what?”
“It sounded like someone was trying to break…the door…with a…”
I’m dizzy and my head hurts, but my legs are numb and my vision’s gone double, so I don’t feel confident excusing myself.
“Grace?”
“I’m…fine…” I mutter, and that’s the last thing I remember.
After that, my consciousness is an infrequent series of pictures and words in a language that I’ve never heard.
I’m not in the office anymore, and for a while, I don’t know where I am at all.
There’s a man standing over me now, shining a light into my eyes, and I’m asking him, with great difficulty, what he’s done to me and why I can’t move.
He answers me, saying, “You’re in a hospital. You had a seizure.”
I try to respond, but it’s difficult for me to find my tongue to speak again.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
I look up at him, the world slowly coming back into focus. “I don’t…” I start. “What’s happening to me?”
“It takes a little time to regain yourself after a seizure,” he explains. “Do you remember anything?”
It takes some time to get the words out, but I tell him about the pictures, the unrecognizable sounds.
“Well,” he says, “my name is Dr. Jones. We’re going to get you in for some tests to see why this happened, but if you’re feeling up to it, I have some questions.”
“Okay,” I agree, trying to keep my eyes open. I’ve never felt this exhausted in my life.
“Do you have a history of seizures?”
“No,” I answer.
“Does anyone in your family have epilepsy?”
“No.”
“Do you have any numbness, tingling in your body right now?”
“My left side,” I tell him, “and both my legs.”
“All right,” he says. “I don’t think you had a stroke, your pupils are round and reactive, but we should know more once we’ve gotten you in for an MRI. For now, you should just get some rest, all right? The remote next to your bed has a red button on it; just press that if you need a nurse to come in and give you a hand with anything. Otherwise, just lie back and close your eyes. It looks like you’ve had a pretty rough day.”
“John…” I start.
“Your friend?” the doctor asks.
I nod.
“He had to go back to the office,” the doctor answers, “but he said he’d be back later to check on you. Why don’t you just get some rest?”
I’m scared and embarrassed, but I’m also exhausted. Even the suggestion of getting rest is enough to convince me to close my eyes.
When I wake up again, the doctor is standing next to the bed, saying they’re ready to get me in for an MRI.
They do their tests and get me back to my room, where John is waiting for me hunched forward in his seat, his clasped hands supporting his chin.
“Grace,” he says as I’m wheeled back into place, “are you all right?”
“I have no idea,” I tell him. “What happened? I mean, I know I had a seizure, but…”
“I don’t know,” he says. “One minute you were sitting there talking to me and the next, you were on the floor convulsing.”
I’m not entirely sure why those words make me cry.
“You’re going to be all right,” John soothes. “You can have as much time as you need. Just focus on getting better, all right?”
I would argue with him, but I’m still too tired to make much of a showing.
“If we don’t take risks,” I tell him, “we’re not going to survive.”
He just smiles at me. “Why don’t you just get some rest? We’re not going to make a move on anything for a while anyway, so you just focus on getting better so you can be back in my office, monopolizing my lunch hour soon, okay?”
My eyes start to close on their own, but I’m still muttering, “…got to get out there… people should know who we are…”
The last sound I hear before falling asleep again is John’s laugh.
***
I don’t know what time it is, but it’s got to be the next morning when I wake up, again with Dr. Jones standing next to my bed. This time, though, he brought a colleague: a tall, tan, almost statuesque man with a lab coat, covering what I’m imagining to be a toned upper body.
“Hey, I’m sorry to wake you,” Dr. Jones says. “This is Dr. Churchill.”
“No relation,” the other doctor says. I’
m assuming it’s a reference to the British Prime Minister. “Grace, I’ve looked at your slides, and we’ve found an oligodendroglioma, stage two.”
I’m expecting him to say more, but it looks like he’s waiting for my reaction.
“You’re going to have to give me a little more than that, doc,” I answer, my throat sore. “I don’t think I can pronounce that, much less have any idea what that is.”
The doctor smirks, his hazel eyes intent on mine. “I’m surprised that I could,” he says. “Basically, it’s a small tumor in your brain. You’ve probably had it for years, as oligodendrogliomas are particularly slow-growing.”
“A brain tumor?” I ask. “You seem pretty calm about that. What’s the plan? Someone goes in and digs it out, or what?”
“Unfortunately, due to its location, surgery isn’t a viable option,” he says. “That said, I think we’ll be able to combat this with a mild course of oral chemotherapy.”
I think about those words for a minute.
“A mild course of chemotherapy?” I ask. “If I’m not mistaken, isn’t chemotherapy poison that’s just as likely to kill healthy cells as it is to kill cancer cells?”
“Chemo is serious stuff,” he says. “There’s no way around that, but I think that we can approach this with a five-day regimen, once a month. Like I said, oligodendroglioma is particularly slow-growing.”
“So the seizure shouldn’t worry me?” I ask. “That’s a relief. I was thinking that I had a major medical event because of something in my brain that shouldn’t be there.”
Dr. Churchill sighs and runs his hand through his short, black hair. “I know this is a lot to take in,” he says.
“How long do I have?” I ask. “I mean, assuming that the chemo doesn’t wipe it out entirely.”
“We’ve found that patients in your stage of oligodendroglioma have a very good shot of making it past 10 years,” he answers.
“Oh, good. I was thinking this might significantly shorten my lifespan, but hey, I wasn’t planning on living past the next decade, anyway.”
“It’s difficult to say precisely what’s going to happen in your specific case,” Dr. Churchill says. “Every case is different. I’ve seen people live out full lives with this diagnosis, and I’ve seen people who have had their lives considerably shortened-”