The Lazy Lemon Sun Ch. 01

I smiled. "Some folks say he was one of the original founders of the Klan, sir."

His smile tightened a bit at that, and he hesitated before saying, "Told you to call me Pat, son."

"Sorry, sir, but that would just go against all the training and upbringing my folks instilled in me."

He nodded, relaxed in his chair, sipped his bourbon. "Fair enough. Anyway, your daddy tells me you've already got a job lined up with Jim Parker's firm in Memphis."

"I've only interviewed there once. Haven't heard back from them yet."

He chuckled. "Trust me. It's a done deal."

I only nodded, more than a bit pissed that everyone seemed to accept that my father's connections were the only way I could land such a prestigious job.

"I was Law Review at Northwestern, sir," I said. "Actually, I've already passed up almost a dozen chances to work at some of the top firms in the Midwest."

"Then why Memphis?"

I hesitated, then went straight for the truth. "I like the music scene."

"The music scene?"

"Yessir. I play guitar in a band up in Chicago, but I think the music scene's better in Memphis."

"And the lawyering?"

I shrugged. "Just a means to an end. Way to earn a living."

His face hardened. "And your obligations to your family?"

"My family?"

"Your wife? Children?"

"I don't have a wife and children, sir."

He started to say something, then relaxed, leaned back in his chair, and smiled. "But you will someday, Mark. And when you do, are you gonna keep chasing this music thing? Or are you going to knuckle down and give them the best damned life you can give them?"

"Tell you the truth– "

"He hasn't really thought about that yet, Daddy," Sandy said from the doorway.

I stood at the sound of her voice and turned to take her in. She was radiant. Elegant. Sparkling. Hell, pick an adjective for the blonde version of Audrey Hepburn in one of those old movies where she's playing a princess and you've pretty much got the picture of how striking Sandra Truelson looked framed by the backlighting against that doorway. All except the demure part. Audrey Hepburn was demure, but Sandy was bemused. Like always.

"Now why don't you quit trying to scare him away before our first date together?" Sandy said, a smile playing at her lips.

"Of course, sweetie. I'll wait for the third date."

"You'll leave him alone, Patrick," Debra Truelson said as she appeared in the doorway. "Hello, Mark."

"Good evening, Missus Truelson."

"You ready to go, Mark?" Sandy said.

"Whenever you are."

She held out her arm, and I walked to the doorway and took her arm in mine.

"Good night, Mister and Missus Truelson."

"You take care of our little girl," Truelson called out behind me.

"Promise," I called back, and guided her to the car as quickly as I could.

* * * * *

"Sorry 'bout that," she said once we were safely on the road.

"No need to apologize."

She giggled.

"What?"

"Think about it, Mark. They never do that to the girls. Just the guys."

"You mean grill 'em on the first date?"

"Exactly." Her giggling persisted. "Can you just picture it?"

I smiled, then did my best impersonation of her father. "And let me ask you, little lady. Just what are your intentions with my innocent son."

"Why Mistuh Speakuh," she said, her hand going to her cheek in mock innocence, "I assure you my intentions are strictly honorable."

"Then . . . uh . . . well, I'm sorry, young lady, but we're going to have to cancel this fiasco before it can begin."

"You pig," she squealed, then tapped me on the arm.

I laughed. Then, as my laughter died away, I got quiet.

"Penny for your thoughts," she said.

I felt her eyes on me, and I didn't want to spoil the night before it began.

"Nothing, really."

"You can tell me, you know. I don't bite."

I shot a quick glance at her, then got my eyes back to the road. "What are your intentions, Sandy?"

She hesitated, then said, "What do you mean?"

"I mean . . . well . . . I guess this is just weird is all. Y'know? You being engaged to Stevie and all."

I waited for her to say something, but she didn't. We were silent until we got to the Club and the car was parked.

"Stevie's gone," she said when I turned off the engine. I didn't have to look at her to confirm the sorrow that was in her voice. "We all need to move on. All of us. It's been almost eighteen months, and we all need to move on."

"Fair enough," I whispered.

"And I like you, Mark," she said, her hand settling on my forearm. I turned to look at her, and she gave a weak smile. "Really. I've always liked you."

"But I'm not Stevie."

"I know." She turned gave a laugh that sounded almost bitter. "Trust me, do I ever know that." Then she turned back and said, "I'm not trying to replace Stevie. You of all people should know that, right?"

I gave her an odd look, but she just gave a tight smile and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

I should know that how? I wanted to scream. But I didn't. I kept my mouth shut, got out of the car, went around and helped her out, and led her into the dance.

And into the first night of the rest of our lives.

* * * * *

The Christmas party was good. Oh, what the hell, why lie. Fine, it was great, okay? The best damned time I'd probably had with any girl at any party without actually getting my monkey spanked at the end of the evening.

As a matter of fact, the whole damned Christmas Break was just great. It was like we started with the Christmas party and some dances and chatting, and before you knew it we were inseparable. She was over bright and early the next morning to hang out, and we went driving around that afternoon.

Christmas Eve was spent with family, but we managed to sneak in almost a full day on Christmas Day. One of the benefits of having politicians in the family: They spend their holidays at homeless shelters and hospitals getting in plenty of photo ops to prove they really do care for the downtrodden they're constantly screwing in favor of their corporate cronies. That left Sandy and me free to do as we pleased.

When the doorbell rang at nine thirty on Christmas morning, I plodded down the stairs in my pajama bottoms and opened it to find a grinning Sandy. Her eyes took in my bare chest in appreciation–okay, not much hair, but I'm way more buff than you'd think; not nearly as scrawny as the baggy shirts and loose-fitting pants would have you believe.

Her eyes lingered on my abdomen for a moment before meeting my eyes. Her baby blues just sparkled as she clapped her hands and said, "Did you get me a present?"

I smiled through my yawn, nodded, and waved her in.

She hugged me, her freezing clothes against my bare skin shocking me into consciousness. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," I replied, then kissed her.

She returned the kiss with more passion than we'd previously enjoyed. It was with incredible hesitation that I finally broke the kiss. "Let me brush my teeth first."

"It's not that bad," she said, then tossed her coat onto the entry bench, kicked off her shoes, and stuck a present into my hand. "I got you something, too."

I smiled, looking at the tiny box in my hands. I shook it. It was light, and nothing rattled around inside.

"But I get to open mine first," she said, leading the way past me and into the kitchen. "Coffee?"

"Sure."

"I'll make it while you go get cleaned up."

"I'm on it," I said again, watching her sashay her jean clad bottom down the hall.

"Move it," she said louder without bothering to look back. "I wanna see what you got me."

Ten minutes later, we were sipping scalding coffee next to the Christmas tree.

"I wonder what it is?" Sandy said, holding up the box and trying to hold back her laughter at my pathetic attempt at wrapping her gift. Then she tore into the paper like a little kid and pried open the box.

"Oh, Mark," she said, looking at the three silk scarves nestled within, "they're beautiful."

"You think?"

She took one last look, then put the box down and leaned over and kissed me long and hard. "Really," she said when the kiss was done.

"Then maybe you'll like this, too" I said, reaching under the couch and pulling out two more boxes.

These contained two blouses and a sweater, and her kisses told me she liked these even more.

Finishing my coffee, I stood.

"Aren't you going to open my present yet?" she said, trying to pout through her glee and failing.

"In a minute," I said, holding up my empty mug. "I need energy."

Returning a minute later, I again sat next to her and held out a small wrapped box to her. "Just this one last thing."

Her eyes got big as she looked from the box to me and back again.

"You shouldn't have gotten all this. I didn't really get you hardly anything."

I smiled. "You've made me happy. For the first time in my life I understand what they always said. You know, that it's better to give than to receive?"

Her fingers trembled this time as she carefully unwrapped the small box. Then, looking first at me as if afraid to continue, she opened the box and looked inside. "It's beautiful, Mark," she said, a silvery tear welling up in the corner of her eye.

"Merry Christmas, Sandy," I said, wiping the tear from her eye as she pulled out the small gold locket from the box. "Open it."

She did, looking at the picture of her and me dancing cheek to cheek on our first date the week before. She smiled, but the smile looked so sad I was afraid I'd done something wrong.

"You okay?"

She nodded, just looking at the picture before softly closing the locket and handing me the box. "Please put it around my neck."

I complied, and her fingertips lingered on the small locket at her throat. I said nothing, preferring to sip my coffee and wait for her to settle down.

Her eyes were staring at the empty box on the floor next to her crossed legs when she spoke. "I'm sorry. It's just that . . . well . . . it's just that you're maybe the sweetest guy I've ever met."

"And?"

She looked up and smiled. "And what? That's a compliment, silly."

I shrugged and gave a lopsided grin. "Thanks."

She leaned in and squeezed me hard, holding it as she said, "You really are a great guy, aren't you?"

I didn't respond, preferring instead to hug her warm, soft body in return.

"Okay," she said, breaking the hug and standing up, trying to force a smile to her face. "Let me get some more coffee and then you can open your present."

"Hurry," I said to her retreating back.

Thirty seconds later, she knelt down behind me and draped her arms around my neck and whispered into my ear. "It's not much, I suppose. Really, it's all what you make of it."

I tried to go slowly and act all adult, but in no time the paper was torn off and the box was opened.

"You like?" she whispered into my ear, then sucked in my earlobe to heighten my confusion.

"It's . . . ." I started, then pulled the lacy white panties from the box.

"I took them off just before I came here," she said, switching to my other ear.

"You mean . . . ."

"Uh huh," she said, then started kissing and licking my neck to drive home her point.

I groaned.

"I'm hoping you'll use the gift in the spirit in which it was meant," she whispered, then trailed her fingers over my chest and down my belly.

I held her hand to keep her from getting near my last body part that was only then beginning to awaken.

"You mean . . . ." I started again.

"Merry Christmas," she whispered, pushing her hand past mine and into the top of my pajamas.

I closed my eyes and leaned back into her as her cool fingertips slid into my boxers and traced the length of my arousal.

"Very nice, Mark Roberts," she murmured as she kissed my neck. "Very nice indeedie."

I giggled. "Indeedie?"

She wrapped her small hand around my cock and squeezed. "Indeedie," she confirmed.

I moaned, then turned my head to find her lips. She kissed me, deeply, our tongues dueling. It started out slow and tentative, but soon the passion rose as her hand started pumping up and down. I started unbuttoning her blouse, then freed her breasts from her lacy white bra–the perfect match to the panties in the box. Once free, her mounds were beautiful. On the small side, but perky and firm. Creamy white skin with small, pale pink areolae the size of nickels and erect nipples, the natural weight making them heavier at the bottom but still giving them that perfect upturned look that begged to be kneaded and nibbled and licked. Squeezing one breast, I lowered my mouth to the distended nipple of the other and flicked my tongue over it.

"Let's go upstairs," she said, pulling her hand from my pants and standing.

"Not a chance," I said, pulling her to me and pushing her blouse over her shoulders and down her arms before going for the button of her jeans. "They won't be home for hours."

"But if someone comes to the door," she said, but her face told me the thought excited her.

"Then they'll get the Christmas show of a lifetime."

"Promise?"

"Definitely."

I knelt in front of her and pulled her jeans over her slim hips and down her smooth legs to the floor.

"Let me help," I said, placing my hand on her ass and squeezing as she lifted her feet out of the pants.

She was trimmed neatly, and the carpeting matched the drapes. My face was only inches from a thin strip of downy blonde hair rising from the top of her pink, puffy lips. I was mesmerized as I hadn't been since my very first time, the time Wanda Sue Rawlins showed me her naked femininity. I'd seen my share since good old Wanda Sue, but this one was, hands down, better than all of them. It was magical and petite and puffy and a light shade of pink and glistening just so with her excitement. It smelled clean and tangy at the same time. It was–and I know this sounds silly–a perfect match to the rest of her body as none had ever been before. And it was the one pussy I'd spent my entire post-pubescent life trying to get into.

I looked up into her eyes. There was a twinkling there. An excitement to be sure, but more. It was as if she was daring me and waiting for my approval all at the same time.

My eyes still on her, I placed my hands on her hips and turned, guiding her to the soft leather sofa to my left. She complied, sitting as the back of her legs hit the sofa. Her eyes stayed with me the whole time, and neither of us spoke. I know I had a dumbfounded look on my face, and I swear to God I just froze. I didn't know what to do. Okay, maybe that's not quite accurate. I knew exactly what to do, and I wanted more than anything in the world to do it. Yet, I was afraid. Afraid this was all moving too fast or would suddenly complicate things or ruin everything before it even had a chance to get started.

The realization of my situation began to dawn on Sandy, too. I watched as her face took on a different look, a look of pleasure and pride. Most of all, though, a look of triumph. Her smile got wider and brighter and her eyes more bedeviling than before. That confused me, and I'd undoubtedly be kneeling between her legs to this day, befuddled and frozen, if Sandy hadn't reached out and begun running her fingers through my hair before pulling me toward her.

I kept my eyes on her until my lips were brushing her nether regions. Then I closed my eyes and snaked out my tongue, flickering it against the dewy softness of her opening. From above, I heard a sharp gasp, then a long, low exhalation of breath, and I knew this was going to work out perfectly.

* * * * *

I was laying on my side, stroking the rise of Sandy's hip, which was snuggled back into my groin. My cheek was nuzzled into her neck as my breathing slowed down along with hers.

"Penny for your thoughts," she mumbled.

I just snuggled in deeper, afraid of saying anything. Great though this had been–and it had more than exceeded my wildest imagination–the post coital bliss was coupled with more than a touch of guilt and insecurity.

Sandy wiggled her tiny body around until she was facing me. Seeing my face, she gave a reassuring smile and stroked my cheek.

"You feel bad, don't you?"

I shrugged.

"Because of Stevie?"

I closed my eyes. "This is all just a bit confusing."

"We need to move on, Mark. Both of us. Yes, I was engaged to Stevie. But he's gone now, okay?"

"But I'm nothing like him. I really don't understand why you– "

"That's exactly why I'm here. With you. Now. Because you're nothing like him, okay? If you were like him . . . well, then we'd both be having problems with moving on, don't you think? And there's no way this arrangement would ever work."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I'd be looking for an identical replacement, and you'd be trying to be him. But you're not trying to be him. You've never tried, and you never will. You two didn't compete. And there's no way this whole arrangement would work if you were like him. It would just be too much."

"Except over you," I said. "We competed over you."

Her hand stopped on my cheek. "You never asked me out, Mark. Not once."

"But I was going to. He knew that, and he beat me to the punch."

"I didn't know. He never . . . ."

"Don't feel bad. That's not the point. That's not why I told you. But if I had . . . ."

She looked deep into my eyes, doubt and sorrow mixed into one. She knew what I meant, and her lips tightened.

"You're right. If I had known–if you'd asked me at the same time–I'd have chosen him. You're right, but what of it?"

"What d'ya mean, 'What of it?'"

"Just that. So what. That was then, this is now."

"You say that like . . . like . . . well, like it doesn't mean anything anymore."

"But it doesn't."

"Why doesn't it?"

"I'm not following you."

"Stevie was big and rugged and handsome and popular. He was the leader and the quarterback and the chosen one. I'm short and skinny and I play guitar and . . . and I'm nothing like him. Nothing. How can you even be attracted to me after him?"

That wry smile curled her lips, and her right eyebrow rose in a steep arch. "You see short and skinny. I see chiseled and cute. You see introverted and shy, but I see sweet and caring. Stevie had his faults, Mark. We all do, right?"

"Yeah, but I feel like you're driving around a Volkswagen after you've had a Ferrari."

Her hand found my exposed and limp pecker and grasped it, squeezing firmly. "This, my friend, is no Volkswagen, got it? I'm not the world's most experienced, but I've seen more than a few in my day, and this one is definitely a Ferrari. In this department–this whole department–you are a stallion, okay?"

That felt good. "So this was good for you?"

"Share a secret?"

"Sure."

"You turned me inside out. I usually don't get off that easily. It usually takes some finger action to get me off while you're doing it, y'know? Getting off while I'm doing it is few and far between. Damned few and way too far between. But you?" She grinned at the memory. "This is the first time I've ever . . . the first time it's ever happened more than once. And it happened three times. And without any help from your fingers. It feels different, and it feels real good."

I kissed her cheek. "Thanks."

She stroked my cheek, then leaned in and gave me a deep kiss. Not a passionate kiss and not a chaste kiss. It felt different. It felt appreciative and cozy and tender. It felt like a loving kiss.

* * * * *

We screwed like bunny rabbits for the three weeks remaining in our respective Winter Breaks. Neither of us could get enough of each other, and it began to worry me toward the end.

Two days before I was due back in Chicago for my last semester at Northwestern University School of Law, we laid in bed in the middle of the afternoon.

"Why so down?" she whispered. Her back was spooned into me, my fingertips tracing circles around her softened nipples.