by Tara Brent
“So says the Latter Day Saint.”
“Touché, Blackwood.” She cuddled next to him, her large bosom pressing against his muscular back, her soft thighs warm against his legs. Her heart was beating a mile a minute. She was not only sure that Tristan could feel it, but that the only reason her racing heart wasn’t chiseling a hole through his back was due to her curvy figure providing a buffer between them. She decided to try and settle herself down by receding behind her sassy façade. “Glad to see you allowed your sly-side to emerge from behind that wall of migraine-induced self pity. I was worried I was dating a pouty-puss.”
“I’m in unimaginative pain and you got naked and climbed into bed without asking permission. Pretty sure if our roles were reversed this would be the most terrifying scene in any horror movie.”
“Yeeaaahh but the roles aren’t reversed and I know you want me.” She wrapped her arms tightly around him and kissed his neck.
“I do,” he whispered back, breathless.
Bethany worked her right hand down his rock-hard chest as she played with his perfect black hair. Her fingers traced along the outline of his abs, making their way lower, lower still, her heart practically vibrating within her ribcage...
“Not tonight,” he said, stopping her abruptly. “I want it to be right.”
She snuggled against him, vaguely relieved that he stopped her before she reached her destination. “Let’s just cuddle,” she suggested.
“Let’s” he said, and the three of them spooned, Bethany and Gilgamesh sandwiching Tristan, the only thing worn by any of them was the blankets, Gil’s fur, and one another.
Chapter 8: Colleen
Colleen slammed the door of her therapist’s office behind her. Useless quack! She thought furiously. She was in Stamford, and the traffic at this hour was going to be a nightmare. To hell with it. She made her way to a wine bar. Just two glasses then I’m going home, no issues of any kind, she thought to herself.
She made her way inside.
“Hello!” said the hostess cheerfully. “Welcome to—”
Colleen interrupted her by tossing her coat at her. “See that no miscreants do anything to it.” With that, she marched to the bar. “I’ll take your best glass of pinot noir,” she said. The bartender nodded and brought it over to her. She tasted it. “It is adequate,” she said.
“Do you want to open a tab?” asked the bartender.
“Here is my card,” she said, passing over a credit card; she didn’t even bother to look at which one she handed over. “And if you see me reach the bottom of the glass, please have a glass of chardonnay ready for me immediately.”
“You got it,” he said.
Colleen sipped very slowly, reflecting on her therapy session. What does she know, she thought to herself. Condescending little twat. She sighed. I suppose the hunt begins for yet another therapist. Difficult to continue to see somebody professionally after calling them a cuntish charlatan with a heart of brick and sewage for brains. She continued to sip her wine. What did I ever do to deserve this? If I had just listened to my parents... no! That is the one thing that all of these witch doctor psychologists get right at least, that it isn’t my fault, that I let them get into my head. She scowled. Damn it, Tristan! You always remind me... she shook away the thought. Oh, how easy it would be to just blame you. That’s my curse though, isn’t it? Wishing I could blame you but knowing deep down that I can’t. The irrational side of me resents you because of what you represent, and the rational side of me resents you because I know that such feelings are unjustified, leaving me with nobody else to blame. Her eyes narrowed. Well, not NOBODY else to blame, but, well, that is a complication now, isn’t it?
She pulled out her cell phone to attempt to read an ebook as she sipped her wine, but the hustle and bustle of the bar was too much for her to focus on a narrative. She considered asking people to calm down, but even she was not so entitled as to think that would be effective, so she decided instead to skim the news. “I see,” she murmured to herself. “The world remains utter garbage. How inspiring.” As she reached her third article, she had finished her pinot noir and the bartender replaced it with her chardonnay. “I’ll have a coffee as well,” she said. “Black is fine.” She continued to read, sip both beverages, and mutter irritably to herself until she was finished. “I’ll take the check and a glass of water,” she said. After paying her bill and giving what she felt was a viable tip, she took a final swig of her water and made her way to the front.
The hostess nervously handed over Colleen’s coat. Apparently there was no proper coat rack, so she just kept an eye on it herself.’ “Oh cheer up sweetie,” said Colleen. “Not everyone is so mean as I am, and I am not nearly as mean as you believe me to be. If I was, I would point out how horribly that dress flatters your figure rather than compliment how well your lipstick complements your complexion. See? Not the devil, nothing of the sort. Thank you for watching my coat.” And without so much as a second glance, she whisked out of the restaurant and made her way to her car.
She turned on the radio to listen to NPR as she made her way onto I-95 South. While rush hour was largely finished with, traffic was still somewhat thick. I don’t have time for this nonsense! She thought to herself. She began to weave between the cars, forcing her way forward. Frustrated and bored, she punched off NPR and tried to call Bethany. Heck, she may not be my actual therapist, but I at least trust her to some vague degree, even if she is as smitten with Tristan as everybody else seems to be. To her surprise, Bethany’s phone went straight to voicemail. “Confound it all!” She screamed, clicking off the phone. She threw it into her backseat and started to weave between cars even more aggressively.
Eventually, it cost her. She noticed the flashing red and blue lights and let out an exasperated hybrid between a groan and sigh. “Oh for heaven’s—now what!” she muttered between gritted teeth. She pulled onto the shoulder. Of course now they’re rubbernecking, she thought, glaring at the cars that slowed as they made their way past her. Don’t they have anything better to do?
She pulled out her license and registration and placed her hands on the steering wheel. The cop approached her. “License and registration?”
“Right here officer,” she said curtly.
He glanced over them. “Do you know why I pulled you over, ma’am?”
“I assume because you’re shy of your quota?” she replied impulsively.
He cocked an eyebrow. “Have you been drinking tonight,” he paused to double-check her license, “Ms. Blackwood?”
“Hardly anything,” she dismissed. “Though I can assure you that the moment I arrive home I will have a martini only served in a pint glass and filled to the brim!”
“I see. Would you step outside of your vehicle, ma’am?”
Colleen rolled her eyes. “Is that entirely necessary, officer?”
“It is if I say it is,” he replied curtly. “And I might remind you that while Connecticut state law does not require you to consent to a sobriety test, that same law states that anybody who refuses such a test will be treated identically to somebody driving under the influence.”
“Very well,” snarled Colleen, getting out of the car. “All right, who or what am I going to have to blow?”
Ignoring her crass remark, the officer pulled out his breathalyzer. Scowling, Colleen took it and blew. The officer looked at the result. “Hmm,” he said. “.07. That is technically under the limit, but I would still be justified in bringing you in if I thought it was necessary.”
Colleen’s shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry for how I was driving I just want to go home and wallow in misery is that too much to ask?”
The officer grimaced. “Here.” He scribbled a ticket. “This is a ticket for reckless driving. Go easy on the way home.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, officer.”
“Everyone has bad days. Although, if you were more polite and blew a 0.7, I may have just let you off with a warning. Just
something to keep in mind. Enjoy your evening, ma’am.”
She sat back in her car, eyeing the ticket with utter disdain, then continued driving, going precisely fifty-four miles per hour in the middle lane until reaching Exit 18, at which point she carefully changed lanes, made her way onto the Sherwood Island Connector, and safely made it home.
Once parked, she sat staring straight ahead. I should be happy, she thought. I had a tremendously successful career and inherited half of my parents’ fortune! Sure, Tristan might be the billionaire in the family, but so what. It doesn’t mean anything. I should be proud of him, if anything! “If only it were that simple,” she thought aloud. She made her way inside. “Orson?” She called out. Oh right, I told him he needn’t come until 8:30, she lamented inwardly. Well I can always pour my own drinks.
She made her way inside and glanced into the refrigerator. She ordinarily preferred cocktails made with the finest expensive liquors, but tonight, she elected to keep things downright cheap. She removed three bottles: Deep Eddy Sweet Tea Vodka, Deep Eddy Peach Vodka, and Deep Eddy Lemon Vodka. She took out a large glass, filled it with crushed ice, and filled it a quarter of the way with each type of vodka, finally topping it off with kiwi-watermelon La Croix seltzer. She kept the can nearby to continue to replenish her glass as the evening wore on. Of course, this would make the beverage less and less potent with time, but she planned to follow it with a strong scotch, so all would be well.
She sat in front of her fireplace, not having built a fire, so darkness filled the room. She didn’t mind, though she hoped Orson would show up soon. She was becoming a tad chilly and would like to enjoy the warmth of the flames without risking a mishap in her quasi-inebriated state.
Colleen heard the door open. “You’re late,” she said.
“Quite the contrary, madam, but I happen to be six minutes early,” came Orson’s voice.
“Maybe, but I expect you here ten minutes early,” said Colleen.
“Indeed, Ms. Blackwood,” he said, “but if you look at the time, it is 8:14, so I am in fact six minutes early for being ten minutes early.”
Colleen glanced over her shoulder at him. “Well... you’re still... bah! Please build me a fire and then fix me a scotch on the rocks.”
“It would be my pleasure, ma’am, but with respect, your words are slurring already. Can I perhaps offer an alternative to straight scotch?”
Colleen finished what was in her drink and used the last of the La Croix to replenish it. I’m only drinking semi-flat seltzer with minimal alcohol and he suggests I DON’T have a strong drink? She sighed. “Proceed as you choose, Orson.”
He was but a few minutes when he came in with a mug. “Red wine hot chocolate,” he announced. “Dark chocolate, cocoa powder, cinnamon, brown sugar, and I substituted the whole milk for chocolate almond milk. And of course, I added some of your red blend. I also placed a single Lindt truffle in the drink, which is melting as we speak.”
Colleen looked at the drink, looked at Orson, then burst into tears. He carefully set the drink down next to her and then dropped to one knee before her. “Colleen,” he said quietly. “I’m right here for you. You were there for me after a terrible time in my life. You gave me a second chance at life, in fact. You gave me purpose when I thought there was nothing left for me. You are my family, and I will always take care of you.”
She sniffed back her tears. “Ugh, this is so embarrassing,” she said. “Nothing even happened today. Just... certain memories that I have tried burying have risen to the surface as of late.”
“It is a daily challenge for me as well, though through different memories I’m sure,” said Orson.
Colleen stroked his cheek. “Look at us. Two of a kind, yet so different.”
Orson stood up and kissed her on the head. “Let me set that fire for you. And, with your permission, I would like to make a second of those red wine hot chocolates to enjoy with you.”
Colleen smiled, her sobs settling. “Of course, Orson. And maybe fix two more. By the time you’re done building the fire and pouring the drinks, I’ll likely be finished with this one.”
Orson hesitated. “Am I an enabler?” he asked earnestly. “You clearly have a problem, and I mean no offense whatsoever when I say so.”
“If you didn’t do it I would or I’d hire someone who would, you old coot,” she laughed. “And of course I have a problem. But seeing as therapy doesn’t seem to do much for me—no disrespect to my beloved neighbor—this is apparently my only option for now.”
“Frankly, Colleen, so long as you continue to amuse me and pay me, I have no objection to any of your desires,” he said. “However, I will not see you go the way of Michael Jackson or Prince.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not a man; a proper lady is immortal until she chooses otherwise,” she said snootily. They both laughed.
“To the hearth and to the drinks,” said Orson.
“Praise Hestia and Dionysus,” said Colleen. “Oh, and Orson? If you weren’t a queen, I would consider having you replace Fernando when it comes to... other duties.”
“And if I was, as you say, something other than a queen, it would be an honor,” said Orson.
She chuckled. “Maybe I’ll call that oaf over here after all.”
“You’ve certainly earned it, ma’am,” said Orson.
* * *
Colleen stumbled slightly as she made her way upstairs and into her room. Steadying herself, she glanced around, her eyes settling on her dresser. Frustrated, she kicked it, but after her beverages, she used more force than intended: it toppled over and one of the wood panels fell off. “Oh for god—!” she muttered, throwing her hands in the air.
Scowling, she opened her phone. “Fernando? Yes, I know it’s your day off... well yeah but I’ll make it worth your while. I just need something—yes... yes... yes I understand that, I just need you to help me fix my dresser that I accidentally knocked over. And frankly, I could use your company anyway, so be a doll and hustle over here... Yes... Yes thank you Fernando, I’ll see you then.” She hung up. Just enough time to freshen up, she thought to herself.
As it turns out, she was mistaken; Fernando was already upstairs and gathering his tools for the job by the time she re-entered after showering in a silver kimono with a glass of white Zinfandel in hand. “And what precisely do you think you are doing?” she demanded.
Fernando gestured to the dresser. “You say fix, I fix!”
“Not dressed like that you don’t,” she said slickly. “Be a darling and lose your shirt my dear.”
Fernando smirked. “Ah, your wish is my command, eh?” he proudly pulled his shirt off, revealing deceptively chiseled muscles beneath his salt and pepper chest hair.
Colleen sipped her wine, her eyes sparkling. “Well, what are you standing there for?” she teased. “Get to work!”
“Ah, the lady likes to watch!” said Fernando.
“You know I do,” she said with a sultry melody.
Colleen sipped her wine while lying on the bed, smirking as she watched Fernando work.
“That about does it,” said Fernando after fifteen minutes. “So, what would the lady of the house ask of me now?”
“I think the rest of your clothes would look lovely in a pile along with your shirt,” she said. “But do remove them... slowly.
She continued sipping her wine, enraptured by the show. “Get over here you magnificent bastard,” she said slyly. He happily complied. She sighed with pleasure. “Oh yes, Fernando... you have no idea how much I need this right now,” she whispered. As he continued, smoothly and gently, she felt her troubles fall away. Even the dark associations of their tawdry dance were irrelevant with the pleasure that swam through her.
Soon they finished—at the same time, to her great pleasure.
“So, I come back another time?” he asked.
“Wait,” she said gently, “perhaps you would consider spending the evening?”
“For you Miss? Anythin
g,” he said.
And so they spooned.
Chapter 9: Cuddles
Bethany woke up with a start when Tristan shifted in bed. She moved to the side and he sat up on the edge of the bed, felt around for his signature rose sunglasses, then reached for a clicker which opened his blinds. As light poured into the room, Bethany saw for the first time a tattoo that covered the majority of Tristan’s back. It seemed to be some hybrid of an angel and a devil. The demonic angel faced outward, arms ending in clawed hands and bat-like wings spread wide, legs slightly bent as if it was hovering, his face angled slightly toward the heavens, his halo jagged and ablaze, facial features beautiful. What was especially interesting about the tattoo is that it seemed to be one solid piece, for lack of a better term. That is to say, if somebody had cut out a picture of it, they could conceivably do so without lifting the scissors. The tattoo only really captured shade, as if light was hitting the angelic devil from the left, leaving one side mostly illuminated and the other side mostly in darkness. Only jet black ink was used, and all empty space was simply Tristan’s own olive skin. Despite the intricate detail, the tattoo was surprisingly minimalistic.
“Well that tattoo is certainly something else,” yawned Bethany. “Can’t imagine my parents would approve but I suppose you’ll likely meet them with your shirt on.” As she said those last words, she realized that, as the lights were on, and that she could see him, and therefore he could conceivably see her, and she most definitely did not have her shirt on, she hastily pulled the sheets up to her neck, her face as red as merlot.
Tristan looked over his shoulder. “So bashful after such a bold display last evening?”
“Right,” said Bethany, “I’m just going to slide aaaallll the way under the covers and hope the mattress swallows me alive, never to be seen again.” She ducked under the covers.
“I’m uncertain if even someone with my clout could easily explain ‘local therapist vanishes after visiting eccentric billionaire’s mansion,’” laughed Tristan. “But as your eyes are momentarily averted, excuse me while I rise.” Bethany heard Tristan get up and open his closet. She felt something soft land on top of her. “A robe,” he said. “Mine’s on too, if you’re worried. Don’t worry, I’m facing away.”