by Dawn Mattox
I took a deep breath, relaxed, and used the time to call Chance.
“How’s my sexy Sunny?” Chance’s voice was Sam Elliot deep and as suggestive as a slow dance on a hot summer night. Soft. Soothing. Healing. My breath caught, and needful feelings stirred.
“Don’t start anything you can’t finish, Romeo. I’m sitting here at a gas station in the middle of nowhere, not our bedroom.”
Chance didn’t laugh. He groaned, low and slow. “I woke up dreaming about you this morning . . .” He let it hang between us with a pregnant pause. “And I came up with a brilliant idea.”
“Umm . . .” Two can play this game. I sugarcoated, “Do tell.”
“I was thinking—since you are going to be halfway to LA, how about I skip a couple of days of school and take the VTX for a ride? Then take my wife for a ride? Get a room for two. A shower for two. Maybe a bottle of champagne and two glasses?”
It was a hallelujah moment. God, I love that man! Then, like a cresting wave, hope broke with a reality check. There was no way this could possibly work.
I already had a room reserved for two and a half, and there was a fifty percent probability that Chance was the father of the “half” growing inside of Paige. There was no way I was going to share a room with my husband and his pregnant ex-whatever.
Where there is a will, I will make a way. Little things—like being stalked, almost being killed on the freeway, and having Paige with me—were going to have to wait. I would tell Chance later—after I have my way with him. So I made some sexy, suggestive noises in reply.
The joy in Chance’s voice was unmistakable. “I can be there by Thursday. I’ll leave early, between two and three.”
“I am already ‘ready.’ I’ll be waiting.” I felt as giddy as a schoolgirl, which seemed appropriate since we’d been assigned dorm rooms on the Fresno State campus.
Paige finally made it back to the car, carrying a large Pepsi, a large bag of Doritos, Fig Newtons, and probably a dill pickle.
“Thank you, Lord!” I prayed with exaggeration as if I had been impatiently waiting on her. I hope God will forgive me, but sometimes I like to pray out loud just to annoy her. “Please part the waters and get us there before registration closes.” I was rewarded with a scrunch on Paige’s face.
God answered prayer. Cars parted before us, paving the way like the Red Sea had parted for Moses. I cut off the I-5 freeway, heading back toward Highway 99 and Fresno and was surprised to see the mysterious motorcycle tailing us once more. I studied him in the rearview mirror, noting that the rider was dressed in traditional black leather, and his facial features were hidden under a full helmet with a tinted visor.
Just another biker, I hoped, but prickled with suspicion. I quickly maneuvered the car between a pair of big rigs, forcing the biker to pass me so I could check him out. Nothing to see. No patch, no logos on the bike. He was not only blacked out, but he was also murdered out—the biker term for wearing all black with no identifiers.
No looks, no nods, but the rider mirrored my move and pulled in front of the lead truck and waited for me to pass him before taking up his position behind me once more. It was disturbing to think that the biker had seen us spin onto the median and hadn’t stopped to see if we were okay. But, then—I gave a mental shrug—people in cars hadn’t stopped either. I wasn’t exactly sure when he had rejoined us, but I knew it was after the last gas station.
We exited into Fresno, and I found myself smiling with satisfaction as I blew through a series of stop signs and green lights, noting that our tail was slowly fading into the distance. A couple of deliberate detours later we finally slid into the university parking lot with minutes to spare.
“Hey!” a voice called out. Apparently, we weren’t the only late arrivals. “Your lights are on!”
I looked back at the county car and was startled at the sight of the woo-woo lights blinking with more strobe than a disco dance floor.
“Wow. No wonder we made such good time,” said Paige as we walked back to the car. “Maybe there is something to that prayer stuff after all.”
I rolled my eyes but didn’t forget to thank God while they were still in the up position. I figured later that my knee must have bumped the toggle switch located under the dashboard while I was at the gas station, but it still felt like a miracle.
Classes started right after a cafeteria-style breakfast and warm reception from the keynote speaker. I probably could have taught most of the classes scheduled for the first day as the workshops all related to the criminal justice system. I cut an afternoon class to keep an appointment with the National Victim Assistance Academy program director.
NVAA is a national training, and I was excited at the prospect of meeting advocates from across the country. Now that I was out of the closet with my newest training module, I intended to take advantage of the time and place to tap into my colleagues’ experiences working with victims of ritual abuse.
Taking a deep breath, I stood tall in an attempt to shoulder some courage. Once again, I was risking the sting of professional contempt. I needed permission to distribute a short questionnaire that related to social services for victims of ritual abuse to about one hundred attendees.
“Hmm. Interesting,” Sondra Klein mused, looking as rigid as any attorney as she scrutinized my questionnaire. She looked up and leaned back in her luxurious leather chair. “I don’t have a problem with this,” she said. “Just make sure you send me a detailed summary of the results. And, Ms. McLane . . .” she relaxed, smiling, “You might want to meet Dr. Shelton, the chief medical officer from Utah’s Department of Corrections. He’s our Friday morning speaker before we break into workshops. Would you care to join us for breakfast?”
“Thank you. I’d love to,” I said with a mental grimace, thinking I’d much rather dine on my husband Friday morning.
The second and third day continued with workshops put on by the various agencies that respond to crises: victim witness, rape crisis, domestic violence, LGBT, tribal health and other minority populations, each with a unique set of issues when providing appropriate support services to victims.
I stretched and yawned, looking at the clock, happy that this morning’s erotic dream would soon be replaced with the real thing. My body fairly throbbed with the love-lust of a young woman who has been separated from the man she loved. Only a few more hours.
I kicked back the covers with a reluctant sigh. I had to distribute the survey and explain my objectives to an early-morning leadership workshop.
“Good morning, Lord. Thank you for this day!”
Mission accomplished. As soon as the group had given me the green light, I sped to the closest copy place and got one hundred copies from Staples and a bottle of champagne from Crazy Jimmy’s Liquor Barn. I figured Chance and I would make do with the plastic cups in the dorm bathroom.
My phone buzzed as I pulled into a parking spot. Chance? Really? Chance hadn’t used text messaging since the day I found the messages he’d exchanged with Paige during their affair.
But there it was: Get ready—Get ready—Get ready; ice for the champagne and a fire extinguisher for the bed. I replied with my room number.
Paige had befriended an advocate on the first day—a pregnant young woman from Southern California—and they were taking the same workshops and enjoying their spare time together. I knew I wouldn’t be seeing her again until just before dinner, around five p.m. Chance and I would have plenty of private time together. Floating on air, I dropped off the stack of questionnaires with the attendees at the upper management classes. First I slipped back to my room, then slipped out of my clothes, and then into and out of the shower. Warm. Wet. Ready.
Anticipation reached its climax at two thirty with a hard knock at the door. Like a star in an Oscar-winning performance, I sprinted naked across the room as the door swung open and leaped into Chance’s strong, eager arms as he kicked the door shut behind. Wrapping bare legs around his waist and my arms around his neck, o
ur lips molded and melted together.
I came up for air just long enough to gasp out a warning, “Oh, baby, I have to tell you . . . Paige might . . .” but the words were smothered as Chance reclaimed my mouth, literally sweeping me off my feet as he quickly carried me across the room to my bed. I was home. I was the leading lady and Chance my leading man.
Our appetites were voracious as we feasted on each other in ways that only married people can fully understand—a mating of body and soul with a certainty that we were experiencing a glimpse of heaven.
Some “Oh-God, Oh-God, Oh-Gods” and few “Yes-yes-Oh-Jesus, Jesus” and “Baby-babys” commenced, hot breath mingling, ebbing and flowing between entwined arms and legs as we cried out impassioned names to the one who had made us “both male and female.”
Looking back, it doesn’t seem at all blasphemous. He didn’t need to make us so soft or so desirable or our passion so exquisite, but I thank God he did!
“I love you, Sunny,” Chance panted.
“Me too,” I gasped.
And we started round two.
CHAPTER 10
Slower this time.
I lay in the arms of my gorgeous husband with my fingers combing through his thick blond hair, then trailing along the rough stubble of his jaw, down his neck, and along the hard muscles of his biceps.
Oh, the plans I have for those biceps!
Chance responded with feather light kisses that followed a path across my eyes to my ears, where he nipped and tugged on the edges of my ears. “Oh, baby,” Chance breathed into my ear, reigniting my already heated blood.
Chance’s chest was smooth and hard, and my fingers wandered happily to the smattering of hair at the midpoint before turning to follow the velvety trail south. My husband’s kisses also moved south, along the side of my neck, to my throat, still heading south—his lips both demanding and infuriatingly slow at the same time.
Heavenly. Divine. God, don’t let him stop.
My body thrummed in anticipation as I reached around to skim the muscles of his back and caress his bottom, so heart-stoppingly smooth.
Chance rubbed my back in languid, possessive circles while his eager mouth continued its exploration.
“Oh, Chance. I’ve missed you . . . missed you . . . need you . . . Ohh . . . There.”
His scent was intoxicating, robust and masculine, uniquely Chance, it set my head spinning. Our desires quickened in time as we moved to the beat of drumming hearts.
Oh . . . Chance was positively decadent. He was more delectable, more satisfying, and more addicting than a truck and trailer of Ben & Jerry’s. I was in heaven as he gathered me in his arms, and I melted under the sweet fullness of his embrace.
“Rock me . . . rock me, baby,” I pleaded. Chance responded.
The world faded away—always narrowing. The room grew dim, the bed melted, and the insatiable mysterious flame burned bright and hot, our love became a crucible that melded us into one new amalgamation of iron and steel. One heartbeat, one gasp, one passionate agonizing cry—one flesh.
Umm . . . My mind wandered in the afterglow as Chance and I lay tangled, entwined in each other’s arms and legs. I can’t imagine what sex was like before Eve was taken out of Adam, back when Adam was still both male and female, but Adam must have been one happy guy.
The cork popped as my Brad Pit husband came sauntering back from the bathroom with plastic cups and the bottle of champagne that had been chilling in the bathroom sink.
“You cut your hair,” I said, my eyes rounding with appreciation. “It looks—”
The door flew open, and Paige burst in. Yet another episode in the series called Life’s Most Awkward Moments.
Paige froze, her eyes popping as they took in my naked husband. Not for the first time.
“Paige? Jesus . . . oh . . .” Chance dropped the cups and snatched a pillow to cover his man parts. “What the hell are you doing here?”
We waited expectantly as Paige stared, open-mouthed.
“Number two,” she said as she scurried into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.
The flu took out school kids like a modern-day medieval plague. I was in fourth grade, and the day began feeling okay, but by the time we had pledged the flag, my stomach was doing flip-flops. One glance from the teacher at my face, red flushed under beads of sweat, bought me a fast ticket home. The school nurse had driven me to the cabin and left me at the gate with a sympathetic “Hope you feel better soon.”
Crosby Stills and Nash greeted me from the upstairs window: “If you can’t be with the one you love, come on and love the one you’re with . . .” I recognized Dirty Dan’s bike in the driveway. I liked Dan. He was nice, and so was his old lady.
I gave Frito a tired hug before going inside. Starla had thrown Frito outdoors again. She didn’t like him or me hanging around indoors. I trudged upstairs to find Mom. I found Dan and Dan’s old lady there too. Mom got out of bed, saying, “Why are you home? Don’t give me that look. And grow up! It’s not like you’ve never seen me naked before.”
That was true. I had seen my mother do yoga in the sunrise naked and swim naked in lakes and rivers, and once I even watched in awe from the upstairs window as she danced naked in the moonlight out in the orchard. Starla had been hypnotic, swaying in time to a remembered song—or perhaps she was dancing to the rhythm of the wind that sighed through the trees as the earth spun on its axis to a tune that only she could hear.
Seeing my mother, Dan, and his girlfriend... all in bed together had triggered the first of many times that I would vomit from stress. While I sometimes still get that familiar wave of nausea, I discovered additional methods for purging pain. Ben & Jerry’s was one. A glass of wine was another. Seeing that the bottle of champagne was so close at hand . . .
I took a hit of champagne straight from the bottle. Followed by another. And another.
Chance jumped into his pants and shirt. I slipped into my pants and was buttoning my blouse when the toilet flushed, and the pregnant princess made her entry.
“Should I leave?” I asked.
“No,” Chance and Paige replied in unison.
I looked at Chance first. “The county sent both of us here for training. I was going to tell you.”
“When?”
The clothes on Chance’s body were dark, but not nearly as dark as the expression he wore on his face.
“Umm . . .” I tipped my head and arched a sassy brow, replying with a playful smirk, “About the same time you were going to tell me about the twins.”
“I’m not having twins,” said Paige.
“We know,” Chance and I responded.
“Listen. Enough.” Chance ran his fingers through his hair and took charge.
“You.” Chance pointed to Paige. “Shut up and sit down.”
Paige sat.
“Are you carrying our baby or not?”
Does “our” mean yours and hers—or yours and mine? I wondered.
I settled back in bed and took another hit of champagne and watched them do a remake of the Travis & Paige “Whose-Baby-Is-It” soap opera I had overheard in the county break room.
My eyes shifted first to Chance with a drawn-out mental sigh. You just had to knock her up. Then to Paige: I hate you . . . and I especially hate that baby. After all, the affair had ended nine months ago, but the consequences of the pregnancy would last a lifetime.
True to form, their argument devolved from bad to worse. I stayed out of it, happily nipping at the bubbly and somewhat entertained as I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t my problem.
The room was starting to spin about the time I heard Paige snarl at Chance, “You got what you wanted! And I got what I what I wanted!”
Her expression didn’t reflect the touted joys of motherhood. She had me wondering what the heck it was she really wanted.
In the end, Paige threw her package of Fig Newtons at Chance, Chance threw his hands in the air, and I threw up on the rug.
&n
bsp; It was a good thing Chance had slammed the door last night instead of this morning. Even the sound of my toothbrush reverberated like a jackhammer in my head. I looked at the stranger in the mirror and groaned. An hour in the shower had failed to rinse the grit from my eyes or the stink from my skin. Pride had gone down the drain a long time ago, so there no was use looking for that.
I rubbed my head in regret, trying to massage away the pain. I hadn’t drank like that since the day I learned about Chance’s affair, and neither drinking binge changed a thing. The only thing I gained was a head filled with more throb than a Southside boom box, and a churning stomach that kept time with the beat.
I wanted to go home, but there was the matter of the scheduled breakfast meeting with Dr. Shelton and Sondra Klein. Then I had to pick up the results of the survey from the Ethics in Leadership workshop and find Paige. She had left the room shortly after Chance, and by the looks of her bed, slipped back in sometime during the night, and left again before I woke. I figured I would probably find her somewhere between the cafeteria and the women’s bathroom.
Dr. Shelton was an impressive man—not only because he held a master’s degree in forensic psychology but because he was a strikingly handsome man with silver hair and a goatee, austere features, and laughing gray eyes. But it was hard to appreciate his noble Grecian features when mesmerized by the pale, rubbery eggs that quivered under blood-colored ketchup on his fork.
My stomach did a slow churn as I tried to hold my breath and talk at the same time. It wasn’t working very well, but I made it through introductions and was impressed to learn that the doctor not only worked within the prison system but had authored several books on the topic of serial killers.
He popped a corpse-gray sausage into his mouth, and I had to fight to hold down the champagne residue that still bubbled in my stomach.
“I would estimate”—the good Dr. Shelton ran his tongue across his teeth—“that as many as forty thousand to sixty thousand people are ritually murdered each year.”