Ryan Silverstone

Chapter 1

Dressed in black with a white collar and white-on-black nametag identifying her as Lucy, the slightly tentative waitress with a soft smile said goodbye and to call again, her eyelids fluttering. At that Ryan knew he only had to ask and she'd date him.

Oh brother, act your age, the newcomer to the city mused. He'd welcome her company but that would almost amount to cradle snatching. "I'll call again," he said pulling out a friendly smile instead of a flirty one and pushed five bucks into her hand. Ryan pretended not to have heard her whisper thank you and add she finished at 2:00. His grin lasted all the way to the exit and into early-morning sunshine.

Ryan Silverstone, who wrote under the name of Rogan Stone, had 45 minutes to kill before his appointment with his publisher. Thirty of those minutes were spent doing something he rather liked. He slouched against a sidewalk traffic sign and watched the pretty girls go by. As well, he occasionally glanced at other less than perfect folk who sometimes exhibited expressions or gestures that might be recorded by his discerning brain as useful to graft on to somewhat lifeless minor characters in his writings to boost personality or expand their oddities.

The author's 38-year-old mouth with fleshy lips damned the drool to avoid an embarrassing release and Ryan swallowed periodically as chic chicks, often glancing at him, as they tap-tapped on the pavement to their offices. Black was the almost universal outer covering, sometimes with thin stripes. Ryan figured the more reserved women would wear black underneath; those deep into an affair or recent marriage would wear color with lace trim and in a sexy cut while the others... what others? Among the favored with Ryan's favorites, mostly dressed in black or dark blue. They were the babes with very mobile hips and slightly open-lipped smiles that lingered. Inevitably they would be in yellow thongs or red silk boy's shorts and mostly being full-breasted would wear a matching bra, with thicker straps if they were sensible but perhaps if they were confident of staying confined would have just the one hook or a single pull bow at the front. Oh yeah, thought Ryan, who heroines inevitably reflected that preference.

Ryan's attention was diverted and his brain began recording. His penetrating green eyes fell on a skinny guy in tattered clothing bending over amid an assortment of legs, mostly feminine. At first Ryan thought the social misfit was looking up skirts and dresses. He was low enough. Then the guy's hands darted between pavement-pounding shoes and he grabbed two cigarette butts, straightened and pocketed them.

"I'll be damned," Ryan grinned. He'd known street bums did that but had never really observed them in action. This guy who looked an aged alcoholic, probably no more than fifty despite his wrinkled face and emaciated body -- Ryan had no idea how he managed to figure out that age.

The startling discovery for the author was the guy, in close proximity to all those stocking tops and perhaps even the occasional uncovered pussy, made no attempt to look up and enjoy the sight of freshly washed flesh and perhaps wobbling white thigh above stocking tops of those who detested tights. Ryan knew why -- the guy needed skill and speed to reclaim the butts without having sharp heels bruise or even sever his skinny fingers. He watched the guy progress beyond him, having picked up at least a dozen butts and only missing a couple when a babe collided with him and almost lost her footing. Ryan was aware through this acute observation he was privy to a form of street poetry, acted-out drama totally mimed amid the cacophony of usual downtown noise on principal thoroughfares.

A chauffer-driven black car pulled up in the no-stopping zone right beside Ryan. A fake blonde with fake tits slithered out after kissing her father (?). The guy called, "Great night honey, my balls feel as if they are hanging below my knees." The overweight whore giggled and 'daddy' shouted, "Shut the door. I'll call when the wife will be out of town again." The woman slammed the door shut, glared at Ryan and walked away from him, her fat ass as well as her 'profession' having turned him off but his brain recorded that she was wearing an imitation tiger skin dress with a zip that went all the way from the back of her neck to just below her ass. Great dress for a hooker who could sit on her client's knees on the back seat of a cab without unduly concerning the driver.

The senior receptionist, around forty, recognized her publisher's author as soon as Ryan walked out the elevator. "Good morning Mr Stone, you look younger and more handsome than the picture on the dustcover of your books. I'm Miriam."

"Hi Miriam, what a lovely greeting."

Making no attempt to hide her wedding ring, Miriam leaned forward to allow Ryan to see the white flesh creaming out of her inadequate blue bra under her black top and her tongue tip protruded slightly. "Fetch me a glass of water please Mandy."

With the assistant gone Ryan knew he only had to suggest a drink after work...

He didn't. Miriam sighed and picked up her phone, "Mr Stone is here Mrs Jackson. Pardon me? Oh, sorry, I meant Mr Silverstone."

Miriam pouted and pointed to the boardroom to her right. Ryan winked and walked towards the boardroom. The door opened and the plump woman with a cheerful face said, "Hi Ryan, it's great to see you in the flesh. I'm Nicola Jackson."

Ignoring Ryan's outstretched hand the commissioning editor kissed him and inside introduced him to the rather watchful trio of publisher Maxwell Simon, Max's third wife and executive editor Belinda and promotions manager Eva Stillwell.

The 70-minute meeting concluded without an offer of lunch. Ryan found a café filled with classy-looking office workers and a thick sprinkling of dowagers with sharp noses and food heaped in front of their protruding bellies. He sat at the bar occasionally catching the bored stare of woman touching forty in a stunningly cut green suit that spiraled her into the category of a mother of teenagers but still worth a second look; oh yeah. The boobs were a disappointment but then that's why the fit of her jacket was so classical. Ryan heard the waitress say with tip-earning familiarity, "I have your regular table ready Mrs Hungerford."

Slipping into work-mode Ryan's brain dimmed out the chatter and everyone else so when he turned to grab a close-up look at cute Mrs Hungerford she was the only person imaged by his brain in color. It was rather eerie, but he was used to it. If he really concentrated he could visualize a dressed woman in the nude and she'd look totally realistic although exact detailing could be somewhat askew -- for example, the target might not have trimmed her vulva, the thighs would not be as graceful as he pictured and his mind had been too kind about insignificant breast droop. He was in this half daydream when her violet eyes met his and she murmured, "Why not join me Mr Green Eyes?"

Hesitation was understandable: what if that invitation actually had been imagined? Mrs Hungerford must have known backup incentive was necessary because she held out her hand. Ryan took it and was almost jerked off his bar stool. "Leave your drink, lunch is on me," she said, hauling him along like a trophy.

Ryan had gone into Buffalo the previous day to have his almost chestnut-colored hair shaped and combed back, the top had been left long to hide the beginning of a balding spot. He'd purchased a gray suit and was wearing that and a new cream shirt. The top button was undone and the knot of the gaudy yellow and red wide tie hung low, so perhaps he looked not unlike a gigolo. When Mrs Hungerford let his hand go he thought he'd give her a wee thrill -- or the opportunity to turn with a snarl and attempt to send his front teeth down his throat with a vicious face slap. His hand slid over her hip and in descent attempted to grab and snap the lower elastic of her panties. He felt the panty line but only managed to pinch her rather than snap the elastic. She half turned, said, "Tut-tut" and pointed to Ryan to take the outer chair rather than the one opposite her.

As the waitress left with the drinks order Mrs Hungerford handed Ryan her handbag and told him to place it on the spare seat, saying she didn't want anyone attempting to sit there.

"Why not?"

"Because if I'm buying lunch I expect to have my guest completely focused and be entertained."

Ryan obliged and pressed her knee against hers.

"Leave it there but that's not what I meant. Please identify yourself as an uncommonly interesting man -- what are you, forty?"

"Approaching it but sorry to disappoint. I live out from Buffalo on the bank of a river flowing into a lake. An environmental joy to me but perhaps a dead bore to most folk."

The mouth of Ryan's hostess fell open, giving him a view of a nicely pink tongue without fuzz and expensively maintained enamel. "Ohmigod. I'm readingJosephine's Unwise Venture into the Forest after having hadThe Bracewell Twins Swim to Glory to read for a group discussion. On both cover flaps you said those exact words: 'I live out of Buffalo on the bank of a river...' But I didn't recognize you. Please get that awful photograph upgraded. Oh, by the way, call me Avon."

Ryan said his publishers had chosen the photograph and he was relaxed about it. People who needed to know what Rogan Stone aka Ryan Silverstone looked like already knew.

"That's so damn typical of Maxwell Publishing, known as Dour Maxwell Books in my book club with a couple of exceptions: your romance novels and those of Penny Money. You two stand head and shoulders above Dour Maxwell's other authors. We favor Penny of course because she consistently treats her heroines romantically. But you -- God we laughed hysterically at the disgusting things coach Kenny Hartwell and those two blondes got up to in the changing room and in hotels. None of us really knew the term double dipping until you clarified it in the most grossly erotic way imaginable. Every time I see two blondes together I think of Dottie and Jess, side-by-side, butts in the air and spreading. God, you are so disgusting. What are you working on now?"

Ryan said he'd been called to Manhattan today and had thought it was to receive a book award. But at the meeting for the first twenty minutes the female executive editor and commissioning editor ripped into him for the 'unsavory manner' in which his heroines were treated. "They said the sex didn't bother them, it was the cavalier way his heroes treated females -- arrogantly, as sex objects and his heroes were quite brutal in their thoughts about women and no women liked reading about women being sprayed with semen."

Ryan looked for reaction but his hostess showed only a light smile.

"I was ready to lash back at them when I noticed dour Maxwell almost turn his lips up at them and the female promotions manager kept shaking her tresses so I eased back thinking the cavalry was coming. It did. When those two women paused to wipe the vindictive froth from their mean mouths Maxwell said, "You spoke of many complaints -- give me a figure."

Avon simpered, "Well, well. My interest in you grows."

Ryan winked and continued. "The commissioning editor said around two-fifty and the executive editor said at least. Maxwell then asked how many complimentary letters and emails had been received about Ryan Stone and his novels. Maxwell's wife replied she didn't have the figures with her so the promotions manager was asked and said she in the past year about 2000. Maxwell then asked why were they wasting their time on powder puff stuff?"

"I agree," Avon said, pressing her knee against Ryan's.

"Maxwell then grilled me at length about my attitude about mothers and about Christmas so I gathered this was about mom's Christmas and not about a book prize. Both editors asked, wording their concerns differently, were I capable of writing about women with respect and I replied about moms, yes and Maxwell said he'd heard enough. He offered me an advance to write the best Christmas romance ever and the title already decided was, Mom's Wish -- Everyone home for Xmas."

Avon pursed her lips without commenting.

"I was ready to puke and saw Maxwell watching me closely so I muttered let Penny Money write it and his wife yelled that's what she wanted. But Maxwell said I had more sting in my writing than Penny. I said sarcastically yeah, that Penny's characters only went through the motions of fucking. The three women gasped. Maxwell grinned, shook my hand and told his wife to hand me my fifty grand advance. He winked at me and said that was a record advance for the company, twice as much as the previous best.

"Well, what a coup for you. Is that all he said?"

"No, at the door he turned and said, "Let everyone fuck young man because it will be Christmas. I want you to produce tears from women readers as well but go easy on seasonal sentimentality. It's about time you brought home a real winner for us."

"And so that was it?"

"Almost, his wife Belinda practically threw the check of me and instructed the promotions manager Eva Stillwell to show me out. Eva said Max had given her a large budget for the book and if early orders flooded in he'd boost the budget. Slender Eva wished me well and said if I wanted to experiment with some new moves to give her a call."

"And?"

"That was it, I left and came here."

"You mentioned slender."

"I prefer my women curvy -- you've read one of my books and are part-way through another."

"You mean contoured nicely like me?"

Ryan ran his eyes over Avon slowly, making her bite her lip and when he poked his tongue tip between his teeth she murmured, "Oh God, this is a tragedy. I have to leave in a few minutes to meet my mother and then go with my husband Tremain to a stupid club dinner that will drag on past midnight. I'll say this: you are an interesting, very interesting guy."

"That's probably because I really like women and doing things to them."

Avon groaned and asked him to swap cards. Avon paid for the meal and outside the café they kissed like friends. Ryan leaned against the building watching Avon walk away thinking going doggie with her could be very rewarding. At that moment she turned and walked back to him.

"Look, I just had a thought. My youngest and unmarried sister Nova Cassidy is living not far from you at Ripley with our grandparents. She's chilling out after an around-the-world cruise working as violinist in the dance orchestra and found on her return to New York her boyfriend was living with one of her girlfriend's stepmother."

"That's not very nice."

"Especially not after he emailed Nova two weeks earlier they should get engaged and she'd agreed."

Ryan sighed. "That means she's off men, even for a no-sex date."

Frowning, Avon said that was probably correct. "Look, how about this. One day soon I'll fly to Buffalo for lunch with Nova. We've planned to do that. She'll come by bus. As we are coming out of the restaurant we'll bump into you and I'll introduce you and we'll go back inside for a drink where you'll find she is from Ripley and you'll offer to give her a ride home, saying you live not far from there. She's bound to ask what you do for a living and will become fascinated, almost as fascinated as meeting one of my lovers as she's forever asking me about them."

"B-but I'm not one of your lovers."

"You wouldn't mind a round or two would you? Please tell me the truth."

"Yes."

"Well then, you are the one with the creative mind. Build on our chance meeting today and we're sure to be consistent with our story if Nova quizzes us separately."

Avon asked Ryan what hotel he was staying at overnight. He told her and she said she knew it. "The premium suites are from the 38th floors and the five-star full service spa facility and lap pool are on the 35th floor. Do you have a pen and paper?"

Ryan produced a pen and his blue and pink covered writer's logbook. "This is the phone number of one of my best friends. Her husband is away on business in Spain and she'll be lonely. I'll call her soon to give details about you and how I had to miss out because I'm going to that rotten dinner. Invite her over for dinner. I'm sure she'll come, in more ways than one if you're lucky. She's curvy and sexy, a year younger than me. Call her in just over an hour -- I bet by then she'll already have essentials packed. Her name is Carla Friel and I can assure you she doesn't play around a lot; like me only a bit. Our husbands are older than us."

They prepared to part again and Ryan moved in slowly but Avon threw herself against him and sighed, giving him a couple of soft hip thrusts. "Lucky Friel. God I'm horny. Tremain my husband's going to think it's his birthday before we go out tonight."

* * *

Ryan arrived home well satisfied because the trip to New York had turned out remarkable well. He loved his new friend Avon Hungerford and thought if she decided to dump her rich husband -- well, Avon didn't work did she and nor did Friel so with that kind of money flying around Avon wouldn't want to move in with him. What, move into a fancy cabin in a virtual wilderness? Ha, that was a joke. She'd miss her friends and the shopping and goodness knows what else. He hadn't gone much on Friel. Rather too sharp and a little too negative for him. She lacked Avon's warmth and depth of conversation and inquisitiveness but hard a firm body and slammed it into him like there was no tomorrow. They'd parted almost like strangers and he blamed her for that lack of warmth. Well, if the sister almost measured up to Avon's level then perhaps she'd be okay. On the other hand, in being recently jilted Nova was probably not into screwing more than once a day, if that, and would prefer fretting to participating in chat or deep conversation.

His pal Jack would decide whether or not he liked the sister and in that case Ryan would follow Jack's lead. Ryan thought Jack would want to sleep on Avon's feet because he'd like her that much. The question was, did Avon like dogs, specifically a hard-case black mongrel called Jack? Jack had been abandoned at the kennels and Mrs Ryan had called Ryan eighteen months ago to say, "Ryan baby, I have a year-old dog here who'll probably adopt you. I've had three failures but I reckon you are the guy Jack wants to bond to." She'd arrived with the dog with great eyes, very friendly and trusting. "Lock him in for a week and he'll stay, perhaps," she said, and kissed Ryan and left. Ryan threw a tennis ball for the dog to retrieve until his arm ached. As soon as that game finished Jack began to slope off so Ryan yelled and Jack stopped and turned to look at him. "If you don't like it here then fuck off Jack," Ryan had shouted and went inside and slammed the door. Ten minutes later Ryan answered whining and scratching at the door.

Irish-American Mrs Ryan, sixty if she were a day, often drank in the local bar with Ryan (they shared a name). When he walked in and she was with other people she'd excuse herself and join him. They swapped filthy jokes and disgusting encounters not fit for the ears of most other bar patrons. Ryan and Mrs Ryan now exchanged Christmas and birthday presents and her grumpy husband didn't appear to mind. She was known to everyone but to her husband as Mrs Ryan so Jack had never called her anything else.

Ryan called her. "Hi Mrs Ryan, I'm back."

"Come and get Jack you lazy skunk."

"No, just let him loose."

"It's a risk Jack with young crazy drivers on the roads. They'd run down a dog with glee."

"Jack's not like you Mrs Ryan. He has brains, knowing its four miles by road or just over a mile through the forest park."

Mrs Ryan snorted and said how did he know that? Ryan told Mrs Ryan to put Jack on the phone and he'd give Jack instructions. She replied get fucked but she'd set him loose and the responsibility was all Ryan's.