Enough Commas for Lawrence

"And a date?" she teased back.

He shook his head. He had turned Sabine down for "some good cocaine and fuckery" twice now, and she said she was disappointed. He told himself it was because he gave up coke years ago. He hadn't had a date in a while. "Just work."

He hailed her a cab. Her sudden hug was impulsive, but not quick, and it kept him warm on the walk back.

That night, he was working at his computer, going over the day's shots. He was sorting them, putting copies in directories of city shots, architecture, and the mix with her. On one of his monitors, there was a shot of her he fancied, from behind, with the lowering sun lighting her brown hair like golden fire, and it struck him. He remembered.

***

It was summer and warm. They had been playing in Tuxedo lake, the lot of them, but now were back up at the Dorison's country house. Eric had been born and bred in Manhattan, but during his ten years he had spent many a summer out of the city, playing in trees and grass. He was a city kid, but he loved the country still.

There were maybe a dozen of them, ages eight to twelve, their parents having a boring get-together to talk and drink. Why talk when there were birds to chase, games to play? They were playing Truth or Dare under the trees. They were of an age that the game was absent the sexual tension it always seemed to gain later as an excuse. Nothing like that, except for the two twelve-year-olds who were dared to kiss - on the lips! But mostly it was challenges of daring, like somersaults down the hill.

There was an eight-year-old who seemed to have no fear, and she became a challenge for Todd Ford, the eldest. "I dare you to climb that tree and get the balloon out of it."

They all looked at the old white pine. It looked about a million miles high, but it was more like forty feet. About three-quarters of the way was one of the red party balloons, jammed between branches by the wind.

The girl looked at it for a moment, and Eric was sure she would decline and take her punishment. Instead, she began to climb. The lower branches were like a ladder, and they kids all surrounded the tree to watch, but they lost sight of her in the thickness.

About ten minutes later, the balloon floated down, and all the children cheered and danced about. But a voice called out.

"I think I'm stuck."

Everyone was calling out suggestions, and someone was going to run back to the house.

"No!" said Todd. He knew he would be blamed. "She got up, she can come down."

Eric looked up, his heart pounding. But he had made the decision a second earlier, he just didn't realize it, and up he climbed.

The early going was easy, but as he went higher, he had to move around the tree to find sold climbing branches. It was an old tree, and much of the dead wood had survived the spring winds.

After several minutes of fevered climbing, he saw her. Sap had stuck small stick and needles to her shirt and jeans, and there were small sticks in her hair. She looked wild and feral. Her eyes looked apprehensive rather than scared, and the look on her face stirred something in his young chest that he didn't understand. "I'm here," he said.

"My foot is stuck." Her tennis shoe was lodged in the crotch of a limb. He stretched out and grabbed further along the branch, pulling it down, and she was able to lift out. "Thank you," she said.

He smiled, and they started down again. They had made it over half way when a dead branch gave under him with a vicious crack. He was suddenly free-falling, hitting branches on the way down as he reached out to grab anything. He slammed into a large limb with bone jarring force, and he grabbed on. But there was a bright pain in his left hand. He looked at it, and his little finger seemed a bit over from where it should have been. It made him sick to his stomach to look, so he didn't.

A pair of feet appeared on the branch above him. "Can you climb down?" she asked.

He nodded, and, careful of his left hand, they slowly made their way down, with the girl pointing out the best branches to hold to. Finally, they made it to the ground.

Todd had been overruled, and the parents were running down to the trees. Eric was sitting on the ground, cradling his hand, but, knowing his mother was coming, had wiped away any tears. She was sitting next to him, trying to be a comfort, with her small, sap stained hand on his knee, neither of them speaking. It didn't seem necessary.

"I'm Eric," he said.

"Adalyn," she replied.

***

Eric sat at his computer, looking at his little finger. It had been dislocated, rather than broken, and never bothered him later. They also never went back to Tuxedo lake. Eric had originally thought it was because of the accident, but found out later his mother and Mrs. Dorison had a falling out over something her and Mr. Dorison had been found doing.

Adalyn.

He kept the revelation a secret over the next few lunch shoots, still playing the game for her. A few times he almost let it out, but he was waiting for the right time.

They were in a little Thai restaurant. Ada was proudly using her chopsticks to eat her pad thai. He had been teaching her.

"So, everyone loved you, right?" she asked. "But you walked away. Why?"

He took a bite of his fiery pad prik khing to give him a moment to think. "Okay, first of all, I am still really young. Twenty-six is still a baby, here. And, you know, rich family, so most people didn't take me seriously. It wasn't until a gallery gave me a blind showing for a couple of things, without my name attached, that anyone paid attention. And things were going really well, then they went nuts all at once last year. I mean, they compared me to Annie Leibovitz." He shook his head.

"I read that. She is amazing. Isn't that a good thing?"

"She is amazing. She is a fucking living legend. The best photographer in the world." He smiled bitterly. "I'm good. On an excellent day, with an excellent subject, I can attain pretty good. But I'm not anywhere close to being good enough to shine Leibovitz's shoes, much less be compared to her. And since the art world considers me a stupid dilettante, at best, it was a kiss of death. So I chose to walk away instead." He took another bite. "It's kind of a theme with me."

"Does it have to be?"

There was no humor in his smile. "Gotta go with your strengths."

They moved on to other, less thorny subjects, but that echoed as well.

After lunch, it was raining, and they took refuge from the worst of it under an overhang.

"Poor waters, spilling," Eric said with a smile. He had found, somewhat to his chagrin, that he had given up cataloging what smile he affected, as he stopped affecting them around her.

"What's that?"

"A bit of a poem," he said, and looked around. He could have pulled it up on her phone, but for reasons he refused to look at in the face, he refused. "Come on," he said, pulling her hand and leading her into a small used bookstore.

It was warm after the cold rain, and a little stuffy. The smell of the books struck him, and he inhaled deeply.

"Vellichor," she said.

He looked over to her in question.

"The wistfulness that you get from a used book store. There really is a word for it."

He found he hadn't released her hand, and led her around a corner to an empty row. He gently puled her to him, looking down into those Hennesy eyes of hers. The kiss was soft and sweet, and he was afraid to hold her because he didn't want to break whatever spell had been cast. She was the one who reached out and pulled him closer, and his hand found itself in her hair, cupping the back of her head. When it ended, they stood there, looking at each other, their eyes soft and wondering.

Abruptly, he stepped back, running his hand over his head. "I'm sorry," he said, looking down. His heart was thundering in his ears. "I didn't..." He didn't what?

"Don't be," she said.

"Um, oh, poetry," he said abruptly, trying to get his bearings. Back to business. But he took her hand as he led her through the stacks.

They came to a shelf with a hand-printed sign bearing "poetry." He ran his fingers along the spines, from author to author. "Ah!" He pulled a thin tome out and opened the index. He ruffled through until he found what he was looking for, and handed her the book.

"'In a Boat,'" he said. "DH Lawrence."

She took it gravely, and started to read. "Nenuphars?"

"Um, water lilies. White water lilies."

"Okay. He likes his commas," she said as she read, and he huffed another laugh. When she was done, she looked up at him.

"It's just one I love," he said, apologetically. "The images of looking at stars in the water. Stars and shadows, and how what we do can mess up what we see, in the water, but the stars remain." He shrugged, self-conscious. "It's what I think about when I take pictures. I can mess them up, but enough stars remain."

She closed the book. "I didn't take you for a poet. More the fool, I." She kissed his cheek, then headed to the cashier.

"What are you doing?"

"Buying a book," she said.

Weeks passed, and even Eric couldn't keep ignoring what was happening. But he refused to move past the working and flirting, and their first kiss was their only. He also knew that when the project was done, he needed to end it as well. She deserved a clean break; otherwise he would probably just disappear on her again. She needed better. Better than him.

It was another clear day, and they were in the park. "Well, he said, dryly, "for the next shot you could climb a tree, but I'm not sure that I could climb after you anymore, Adalyn."

She whirled on him, a wild smile of joy on her face, and for a moment he didn't understand how he could have missed that for so long.

"You bastard! How long have you known?" She threw herself at him and hugged him tightly for a moment.

"A little while," he said, stepping back but taking her hand and walking. "It all came back. The lake, the tree." He wiggled his little finger. "My hand."

"You were my hero," she said. She smiled brightly, then seemed to dim as they walked.

History, he knew. She was thinking of his history.

He stopped at a bench. "We need to talk," he said.

***

Eric had helped her carry her bundled wedding gown from the car service downstairs. Bronwyn was wearing casual clothing, but her makeup and hair were professional done and wedding perfect. She carried a large box with her bouquet, as well as a bag of other effects. He showed her where to change as me made his last checks on his cameras.

He had several cameras set on tripods around the room, all equipped with remotes. For a static shoot like this, he liked to have other views, and occasionally, you found magic. He still used film on some shoots, but one of the great simplifiers of the digital age for photographers was the ease of electronic storage. You just had to replace the drives. He verified they were all working correctly before Bronwyn returned.

Bronwyn Piers-Comstock, or Piers Comstock - Eric was always sketchy when it came to wealthy person heraldry, and everyone just called her Bronwyn Comstock -- was a beautiful woman by any standards. The last time he saw her, her long hair had been a striking shade of dark magenta, and he was somewhat disappointed that it was returned to its original chestnut brown, but it was beautiful swept up in a low chignon that looked artlessly causal but probably cost her close to a grand. She had dark brown eyes, a sprinkling of freckles across her nose, now covered in subtle makeup, and a deeply sensuous mouth. Her snow-white dress was a classic wedding gown, with a discrete bodice, long sleeves, gloves, and a full skirt and train, but it still displayed her curvy figure beautifully. Though they had been long-time members of the same scene, Eric had never had the pleasure of seeing her naked. That would change today, as she had arranged to have some intimate photos taken as a gift for her fiancé.

Thomas Carston had been a close friend of Eric's since they were in elementary school together. The pairing of the fiery Bronwyn and the more sedate Thomas was sometimes confusing to him, but after a year they seemed well suited now. It was also a bit of a business merger of sorts, though no one was gauche enough to say that out loud. Often, at least.

The shoot went well. Bronwyn was a little nervous at first, but she soon relaxed. She was very photogenic, naturally dramatic, and enjoyed attention. They took many shots with the bouquet, a long waterfall of pure white roses, before moving on to other props. She took several holding her old lacrosse stick and gloves, as well as her field hockey stick -- memories of high school and college. Some with an old family album. The most poignant were the pictures carefully holding her mother's wedding dress. Jenette Piers had passed tragically of breast cancer when Bronwyn was only seven. Eric waited while she reapplied her makeup, and loved her a bit for the tears.

After a short break for water, they moved to the more risqué shots. She stripped off the dress a piece at a time, first the sleeves, then the bodice, under which she wore a beautiful bustier. The bustier went away for a time, exposing her beautiful, full breasts. Eric took multiple shots from several vantage points of her topless in the skirt before Bronwyn replaced it, removing the rest of the dress in its stead.

She stood brazenly, clad in the bustier and a matching lace g-string, accompanied by a garter belt set, including the wedding garter. She looked stunning -- sensual, confident, and powerful. He took multiple shots -- standing, sitting on a chair, on the floor, and reclined on a chaise lounge -- with several levels of undress, culminating in a shot of her completely nude, sitting on the chair, staring at the camera in a shot Eric admitted was almost transcendently sexy.

After the shoot, Bronwyn sat in a loose silk robe, drinking from her water flask, while Eric reflexively changed the drives on all his cameras. "Eric," she called out in her low, whiskey soaked voice, "I need another favor."

Eric came over and stood by her. She looked down, and bit her lip in concentration. "This is a big favor, but hopefully not a painful one," she said. She looked up at him again. "You really are a beautiful man. Sorry. I will come out and say it: I need you to fuck me."

"No," he said with finality, and a touch of anger. Thomas was his friend.

"Just listen," she said, quickly. "This is a little complicated. First, you know Thomas doesn't love me."

Eric started to argue, by reflex, but she shook her head.

"I know all about the little boho girl on Prince street," she said.

Eric did as well. Kelly's parents had worked at the prep school the boys attended, and Thomas and Kelly had been deeply in love since they were all kids. Thomas had spoken of running away with her, but couldn't stand up to his parents. That he was not going to marry a penniless artist in SoHo may have been the only thing they agreed upon.

"Don't worry, I have met her several times. I respect the hell out of her, making it as an artist on her own terms. But she has made it abundantly clear that she will not be a mistress." And that fit Kelly as well. "I like Thomas," she said. "Hell, we love each other, in our way. But we are not in love, and we all know this has more to do with who are parents are than who we are. If we break his heart," she said, using air quotes, "and break it hard, Robert and Helen will give in to him on this.

"This is for you." She handed him a folded piece of paper. Eric, please do what she asks. I am fully supportive of her in this. It was signed by his friend.

"Pretty vague," he said, looking up.

"Turn it over."

On the back was scrawled, Yes, I mean fuck her, you dumb bastard. -T

Eric laughed and handed it back.

"And you," he said, "are doing this out of the goodness of your heart?"

"Oh, god, of course not! My reasons are more...mercenary. It is all very complicated, but it has to do with my mother's trust fund for me. She had some very medieval views on marriage, and it all gets tied up in legalese. The step-bitch says our lawyers can fix it so I don't lose out when I get married, but she is a stupid, lying bitch. I had two sets of lawyers dig into it, and they say it cannot be broken. If I am married before I turn twenty-two, it all reverts to the family fund, since my husband can take care of me. Daddy is pussy drunk, so he won't do a fucking thing." Bronwyn's current stepmother, her third or fourth, was only three years older than she was. There was some animosity.

"She has all the dates set in stone, and they won't let me change them. So, if the wedding is off, and it is a big enough scandal that they can't cover it up, I can finally get out of this fucking town and live." Her voice had gained in tension and anger as she spoke, and he completely believed her.

"Fine, for love and money," he said. "Just tell everyone we fucked. They will believe it. I have a reputation, after all."

She shook her head. "This can't be just cracked, Eric. It has to be shattered. Publicly." She looked up to him. "Can you please do this for us?"

Eric cursed, standing there. So much was running through his mind. He loved Thomas, owed him a lot. But to become the reason that ended the wedding of the season, destroying a dynasty before it came to be? There was a lot there, even for someone who had turned his back on it all.

As he thought, Bronwyn reached out and started stroking his erect cock through his pants. "It isn't as if you haven't been hard for me since we started taking pictures," she said.

Eric shook his head, smiling ruefully. "No offense, Bron, but that isn't unusual for me." He was often aroused by his work, especially when his subject was a beautiful woman. He usually didn't act on it. Usually.

"Oh, but it is for me," she said, her voice low. "Do you know how wet you made me, just being this hard because of me?"

Actually, he did know how aroused she had been. It became something of a feedback loop.

Scooting forward on the chair, she reached out and undid his belt, pulling it out of the loops and tossing it. Then she undid his pants, pulling out his hard cock. "Ah," she said. "There it is."

She started to stroke him. "You boys have your locker room talk. Do you have any idea how filthy a good girl's tea can be?" She looked from his cock to his eyes, then back. "Girls talk. We talk about you guys' cocks -- length, girth, curve, shape -- everything. We all know all of you, intimately. We discuss who is best at what. We compare techniques, turn ons, and kinks. Absolutely everything." She stopped to run her tongue from the base to across his head, and Eric didn't think he could stop now if he wanted to. "You have a reputation as an oral obsessive, which I plan to let you indulge in."

She opened her mouth and took in about half of his cock. Engulfed in pleasure and warmth, he watched as she sucked hard as she pulled off, then opened her mouth further to take more of him in to her, and again until he was buried between her lips. Her mouth was truly gorgeous.

She pulled off and looked up at him. "So, can you help a girl out? Keep taking pictures."

He looked at her for what seemed to him a long time. His heart was hammering in his chest. The villain's role it was, then, he thought. With one hand, he started shooting again. The other, reached out to grab her hair, messing up her thousand dollar hairstyle as he held her head still, plunging his hard cock into her mouth. She was looking at him blissfully as he began to fuck her face.

It was dark as they sat together, each in a warm robe, in his editing studio, looking over the pictures. The remains of pizza and wine sat on a far table, and she was still sipping a nice pinot noir. She told him she hadn't eaten pizza since grade school, and loved it.