Los
Angeles International Airport
I have an epiphany, and not the kind that my sister
says can be cured or eradicated by rubbing cream on it, but a real eye-opening
epiphany. I have been kidding myself into believing that my weak excuse for not
pursuing a relationship is because of my commitment to my writing career.
What writing career?
In the three years that I have been a disenchanted
writer, my publisher has sold two copies of my memoir: one to myself and the
other one also to myself, which I returned for a refund. If I’m postponing love
for that kind of success, someone should sell me some land and quick, before I
grow wise.
These are the thoughts that drift through my mind as I
head into the Los Angeles airport, making certain to drop two dollars into the
homeless man’s cup. I lug my stuffed-to-capacity bright orange tote bag behind
me, as energetic orange has recently become my color of choice.
Today marks the end of a six-day stint at my sister
Kirby’s house after coming here to celebrate the one-year anniversary of my
divorce. It’s been a busy, exhausting, and exciting six days of bumming on the
beach, boozing it up, and philosophizing until the crack of dawn.
I have two hours to kill before my flight departs for
Chicago so I check my luggage, go through security, and proceed to Gate Twelve.
Eager to catch up on some journaling, I find an empty row of seats to make my
own. I exhale a deep breath as the memories of my fabulous vacation are fading.
I am all out of excuses for not pursuing a romance, and
make the decision to do something about it. Otherwise, I will be back in
Chicago, living my humdrum existence, hoping and wishing for things to be
different. While I enjoy my iced white tea from 95 Degrees of Heaven, I sit
comfortably with my pen poised over my jumbo-size hardback journal. I am ready
to make a thought-provoking entry about my glorious vacation, when out of
nowhere, I hear a male voice say, “I want to see your panties.”
Did I just hear what I thought I heard?
I can only hope that those words are not directed at me.
I chuckle and jolt my head upwards, eyes widened. Then, my jaw drops. I tell
myself that my eyes are playing tricks on me. But my eyes are fine. The person
before me is exactly who I think he is: Rome Nicki, an old boyfriend who ran
away. That’s right. His handsome butt ran away from me and married someone
else, but I digress. What’s most notable is how much I wanted this man, and
when I say I wanted him, I mean I wanted him bad!
How bad did I want him?
This is the man I wanted to make well when he was sick,
the man I planned to curse out when he came home late, the man I wished to make
love to on Mondays and Wednesdays and sometimes even Fridays, but most
importantly, the man I wanted to stamp with the words Already Taken.
In short, love is my religion, and Rome used to be my
church.
“Oh… My… God,” I say to him. I am all smiles when I
throw myself into a standing position and curl my arms around him. “I can’t
believe it’s you.”
Rome holds me close, and I soak up his just-showered
scent. I’m totally preoccupied with sex now, and all he’s done is hug me.
What would happen if he kissed me?
I have to control my emotions. I inhale a whopping deep
breath and remind myself that what I had with Rome before is over. Today is a
totally different day. The man is probably still married anyway. My mind is
listening to my sophisticated logic, but my body has a mind of its own and is
hoping that old times will be back again and soon.
With Rome’s arms still wrapped around me, I don’t want
to let go of his warm body, but I force myself.
“Here we are together again, just like old times,” he
says, his haunting sienna brown eyes staring at me. “Do you care to take a trip
down memory lane?”
2
Hypnotized by my attraction to him, a small moan
escapes from my mouth as my insides melt. “We probably shouldn’t.”
“But it would be so much fun,” he says to me in a
whisper.
“I’m sure it would be.”
Rome seems intent on weakening me, but I fight the
temptation every step of the way. I inhale another much-needed breath and say
to myself. Self-control. It’s all about
self-control.
“You enjoy flirting with me, don’t you?” I ask him.
“Absolutely.”
I fix my gaze on his lips, the kind I could kiss all
day, and all night.
“I have thought about you… a lot.” As soon as I hear
the words escape from my mouth, I realize that I have done it now. Am I really
bold enough to start something with this man again, knowing that I might regret
it later?
I resume a sitting position and slap the seat next to
me. “Sit down next to me so that we can catch up.”
Rome is quick to oblige. “So, are you going to let me
see those panties?”
With a soft smile, I shake my head, no. If only he
really knew how I felt. Then, again, he probably does as the sweat above my
upper lip is bound to give me away.
He wears a classic black narrow-brim Fedora hat and if
that is not enough to make any woman swoon, he sports a seductive I-haven’t-shaved-in-two-days look that I
find utterly intoxicating.
He is one gigantic spoonful of sexy.
At this moment, I have a major hard-on for this man, if
such a thing is at all possible for a woman. To halt the amazing memories of
our past from running over, I ask him, “Are you on your way to Chicago?”
“Absolutely.”
Rome is a successful film producer in his early 40’s
who has always spent his time between Los Angeles and Chicago. His impressive
occupation is only one of the three things that drew me to him when we first
met. His Fedora hat and half-shaven face being the other two.
I ask him what is front and center of my mind, “Are you
still married?”
“You’re going to just jump right in, aren’t you?”
“Of course,” I say.
“I could ask you the same thing,” he says to me,
avoiding the question. “Are you
married?” He flashes me a cute smile, and I so enjoy the sight before me.
Even though he has yet to answer my question, I answer
his, “No, I’m not married. Not anymore.”
“Neither am I,” he says.
“But you were married, weren’t you?” I ask him.
“I used to be a lot of things and being married was one
of them. I’m happily divorced.”
Now, this surprises me. I was certain after his divorce
that some lucky woman would have scooped him back up again.
“So, how’s being divorced?” he asks me.
“Great. Wonderful. Fantastic. My only problem is,” I
say, “ever since my divorce, I have been… just… so preoccupied with thoughts
about sex. You know what I mean?”
“I do know what you mean, and you were always like
that,” he says to me. “You can’t blame that on the divorce.”
I laugh, enjoying his witty remarks.
“I’m so glad I ran into you this afternoon,” he says to
me, “because I have something quite interesting I want to talk to you about.” Rome
stands and lifts his Michael Kors messenger bag upon his shoulder. “As a matter
of fact, we have some time before our plane leaves. Let’s take a walk, shall we.
You’re going to love what I have to say to you.”
“I can hardly wait.” Excited to be in his company after
so many years, I gather my things, and we head off for our walk. I am all
smiles as we stroll through the airport, my hormones racing, senses heightened.
“It really is good to see you,” I say to him.
“It has to be a sign,” he says, “my running into you
like this.”
“I was thinking the exact same thing.”
“Are you still writing?”
“I am, but nothing published since my disastrous
memoir.”
“What are you waiting for?” he asks me.
“I’m waiting for my creative muse to give me something
different, something that the publishers won’t be able to say no to.”
“Have you written anything about me, yet? About how
good I make you feel?”
The memories come flooding back with a bang. “You know
I did,” I say.
“No, you haven’t, because if you had, it would’ve been
a hit.”
His statement literally stops me in my tracks. “Come
again, Mr. Ego. Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. You can call me a lot of things, but you’ll
never be able to call me ordinary.”
I would like to disagree with him, but I can’t. There
is nothing ordinary about Rome Nicki. The Fedora hat alone makes him memorable
to anyone.
“Are you still driving women crazy?” I ask him.
“Not as much as before.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
As we continue on our stroll through the mass of
people, I soak up his wondrous feel-good energy.
“You know,” he says, “I’ve been thinking about you,
dreaming about you, even.”
“Oh,” I say, as I am beyond flattered. No. I am on
fire. “Did you just say you have been dreaming of me?”
“That’s exactly what I said.” He stops, turns to me,
and joins his hand with mine. “Listen to me, Thursday,” he says with an authoritative
air.
I inhale a breath and swallow hard. He is so serious.
“Like my college professor used to say,” I say, “You
had my curiosity, but now you have my attention, or was it the other way
around?”
Rome then escorts me towards the wall, away from the hustling
traffic, and says, “I want to recruit you.”
I shake my head and gather my wits. “Recruit me? For
what?”
“I can’t get into the specifics right now, but trust me
when I say that this will definitely be something to your liking.”
I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “If you
wanted to peak my interest, you have succeeded. Tell me more.”
Rome and I resume our stride. I eagerly await his
explanation for wishing to recruit me, but he says nothing.
“Well,” I say to him as if to remind him that I am
still waiting.
“Do we have time for a drink?” he asks me, his brown
eyes searching for the nearest bar.
“There’s always time for a drink. You know that.”
Rome laughs. “That’s right, I almost forgot how much
you love a good bottle of wine.”
“And it doesn’t even have to be good.”
Rome and I find a cozy spot at the bar at the Golden
Eye Lounge. The bartenders are dressed as Somali pirates and have rifles
wrapped around their bodies. I can only hope that the guns are not real.
After we place our order with the bartender, I swerve
my chair in Rome’s direction, yearning to devour every word that passes through
his lips. He eyes me like a piece of caramel, and I so want to be his candy. By
the moment, my temperature is rising, and there is a huge fire bursting in my
belly. I wish to initiate an intelligent conversation, but I have nothing.
Silly me, can’t think of anything to say. I’m blushing
furiously under his steady scrutiny. When the much-needed Chardonnay is served,
I toss it down, and it does not go unnoticed by Rome.
“I’m not making you nervous, am I?” he asks me.
“Of course, you are.”
“So I haven’t lost my touch?” he says, seemingly
flattered.
“Not in the least.”
His freshly bathed aroma stirs an intense emotion in me.
I want to bury my head in his chest, nestle my arms around him, and squeeze him
like there’s no tomorrow.
It’s official.
I am under his spell again.
After an explosive reunion, Thursday learns that Rome now shares his
home with two ladyloves and has every intention of making her his newest
conquest. Together, they embark on a daring, unorthodox living
arrangement that pushes the boundaries of lust, love, and the forbidden.
Avid
journaler. Dog lover. People lover. Writer. Lover of children. I
believe that there’s good and bad in all of us and that the people who
like us choose to only focus on the good. I possess an insatiable
curiosity about all things. I adore character driven movies and
instrumental music that transports me to a place of nirvana. I believe
that Leonardo DiCaprio is the most fascinating actor of all time. If I
could write as well as he acts, I would be rich. What I love to do more
than anything else is talk. The book that most reflects my personality
is my novel, “The Women Who Love Rome,” which is available for free at
Smashwords.com. Contact me at londontracy44@yahoo.
Title: Sweet Dreams
Award-winning
author Stacey Keith doesn’t own a television, but reads
compulsively—and would, in fact, go stark raving bonkers without books,
most of which are crammed into every corner of the house. She lives with
her jazz musician boyfriend in Civita Castellana, a medieval village in
Italy that sits atop a cliff, and she spends her days writing in a
nearby abandoned 12th century church. But the two things she is most
proud of are her ability to cook pasta alla matriciana without burning
down the kitchen, and swearing volubly in Italian with all the
appropriate hand gestures.
Title: Merry Inkmas
Talia Hibbert is a writer and educator from England, U.K., by way of both the West Indies and West Africa. She wrote her first romance aged 12, and was promptly scolded by her teacher because her story of love in the jungle wasn’t ‘proper’.
Title: Winner Take All
Title: Dirty
R.L.
Kenderson is two best friends writing under one name. Renae has always
loved reading and in third grade wrote her first poem where she learned
she might have a knack for this writing thing. Lara remembers sneaking
her grandmother’s Harlequin novels when she was probably too young to be
reading them, and since then she knew she wanted to write her own.
Title: The Women Who Love Rome
Avid
journaler. Dog lover. People lover. Writer. Lover of children. I
believe that there’s good and bad in all of us and that the people who
like us choose to only focus on the good. I possess an insatiable
curiosity about all things. I adore character driven movies and
instrumental music that transports me to a place of nirvana. I believe
that Leonardo DiCaprio is the most fascinating actor of all time. If I
could write as well as he acts, I would be rich. What I love to do more
than anything else is talk. The book that most reflects my personality
is my novel, “The Women Who Love Rome,” which is available for free at
Smashwords.com. Contact me at londontracy44@yahoo.