Thick and Thin: The Beginning

Since it was an adult-oriented building, there was no trouble with having adult beverages at poolside, as long as they weren't in glass containers. There were also several small built-in barbecues scattered about. On Fridays and Saturdays, it was common for small party groups to mix and mingle around the pool.

Lance proved himself a dab hand at both grilling steaks and mixing margaritas and was soon moving easily among the other tenants, although he generally spent more time with Chrissy and me since we had the swimming link.

He also quickly earned the attention of a number of the ladies in the building and not only the single ones. But, like Chrissy with men, he handled it with grace. After about a month, Chrissy and I had the distinct feeling that he'd scored with more than one woman from the pool parties, but neither of us could say with whom. He was circumspect before, during and after his assignations, which raised his standing even higher.

At about that one month mark, Lance also showed another aspect of himself that tightened his friendship with us. The boy could sing. Okay, he wasn't going to get a 4-chair turn, but he could definitely hold his own in any karaoke bar and that put him right in the same league with me and Chrissy. Well, with Chrissy for singing; I'm not that strong. But I can handle a guitar pretty well.

In one of the bizarre twists that come with taking care of rich people like we do at L&L, last year a client heard that I played and gave me a Gibson Hummingbird, which is about a $2,000 guitar. Her cheating husband had been more clever than most in keeping his straying secret, but through perseverance and a bit of ingenuity, I'd given Clive the lead he needed to finally get the goods on the skunk and he'd gotten the boot with none of the client's old family money. Apparently, she'd bought the guitar for his upcoming birthday and instead of returning it to the store, she gave it to me as a personal bonus.

This particular Friday evening, I'd brought the guitar down to the pool. Another player, Benny, had a Taylor GS Mini that sounded really good with my Gibson. Soon we were working through a playlist from Bob Dylan to Ed Sheeran.

I started playing and singing Kid Rock's "Picture", a song that Chrissy and I like to do as a duet. I hadn't heard Lance join in the singing yet, so was surprised when he came in with a wonderfully sorrowful tone. I kept up the strumming and let him take over on the vocals. When the Sheryl Crow part came up, Chrissy was right on time and sounding especially good. When they got to heart of the duet, their voices complemented each other perfectly and during the lines, "I've thought about you for a long time, can't seem to get you off my mind," there seemed a palpable connection between them.

A horn suddenly blares behind me and I realize I was mentally checked out again. Up ahead, a traffic cop impatiently waves at me to follow the temporary detour past the crash site.

As I pull ahead, it strikes me that the duet at the pool was probably the first sign of a growing mutual attraction between them, which is likely what led to last night playing out as it had.

CHAPTER THREE

We'd planned on meeting up poolside for grilling and singing. It would have been the third weekend in a row, including that first one. I'd been working on "Leather and Lace" as a duet for Chrissy and Lance at his request. Chrissy and I had also been practicing "Islands in the Stream" for her and me to sing together. It was a sentimental favourite for her because her mom and dad had sung it when she was a kid.

Mother Nature had different plans, however. A powerful windstorm that was expected to stay on the other side of the nearby mountain range had made a very unseasonable detour over the ridge and down into the city. All the pool party sing-along plans were left blowin' in the wind, as the Nobel Laureate might have said.

Lance called and said that, as we'd discussed earlier, he'd picked up some New York Strips for the three of us and wondered if we still wanted to get together for dinner. Chrissy had gotten everything needed for a bowl of mixed salad, so we agreed he should come over to our apartment to eat.

He asked if he should bring over the fixin's for a pitcher of margaritas, but I said I had to go in to the office in the morning, so we should probably just stick to wine. He said he'd bring along a bottle of red.

By 7:00 we were enjoying some very tender steaks, a nice fresh salad, and a rice pilaf that was surprisingly good for having come out of a box. Lance's red was excellent.

As we neared the end of the meal and were enjoying our second glasses of wine, Lance hit us with a major surprise.

"What time do you have to go to work tomorrow?" he asked me.

When I said not until 10:00, he said that wasn't so bad after all. Then he said, "So, you want to take it easy on the booze so you don't have a hangover to deal with, right?"

After I agreed that was a primary concern, he said, "Well, how about something that will let us party, but won't leave us with hangovers?"

"Is there something special about this wine you haven't told us?" laughed Chrissy.

"No, but I've brought something else with me as well. Now, I suppose a couple of legal eagles like you two might not be able to partake, but what would you say to a little smoke?"

"Smoke?" Chrissy said in confusion. "Oh! You mean, smoke?"

Lance smiled and nodded. "Do you guys have to take urinalysis tests as part of your jobs?"

We looked at each other, shrugged and said no. Obviously, getting busted with a bunch of pot could mess us up at work, but L&L pretty much had a 'Don't ask, don't tell' policy about private lives if they didn't interfere with firm business.

"My god," laughed Chrissy. "I don't think I've smoked anything since a college graduation party."

"I was thinking the same thing," I said. "That was nearly five years ago."

"Wait a minute," said Lance. "You two went to different schools, didn't you?"

We both nodded yes.

"Holy shit! Are you telling me you two have never smoked weed together?" His voice was full of disbelieving merriment. Again, we just looked at each other and shrugged.

"Well," Lance continued, "we obviously have to fix that. It's not right that if you've both done it with other people that you haven't done it with each other. And I have just the right shit for our purposes. It's a very mellow blend that's easy on the throat, with a light, fun high."

There was a certain logic to what he said and we couldn't see any reason to say no to correcting such an obvious imbalance in our relationship, so Lance quickly and expertly rolled up a nice, tight joint.

He was right about the smoke not being overly harsh. Of course, we both coughed some at first, being so out of practice, but soon we were passing the doobie around and easily holding in our smoke as we slowly worked our way down to the roach.

In between, we'd been sipping on our wine and singing snatches of songs as I noodled around with the guitar, trying to finish tuning it after having changed the strings earlier that evening. When we'd been playing outside the past two weekends, I hadn't been happy with the tone I was getting and had splurged on some new, coated strings that sounded much brighter. The old ones were still in good shape, however, so I'd just coiled them up and slipped them into the envelope the new strings had come in. I thought I had the tuning where I wanted it and asked Chrissy to walk me through the notes on my harmonica.

While she did that, Lance rolled us up another joint.

I started playing "Islands in the Stream" and soon Chrissy and I had a real nice harmony going. I couldn't tell if the weed had relaxed my vocal cords or my ears, but I thought I was sounding much better than usual.

The second joint and a second bottle of wine started making the rounds and after two hits and two sips, I realized that Lance's smoke, while mellow, did indeed give a giddy high.

I found myself slipping into my mental movie theatre seat -- the big plushy reclining kind like at a high-end cinema -- and watching that old "movie of life" play out in front of me. But this was like the original silent movies, where a band or an orchestra would sit in the pit under the screen and provide a live soundtrack. Only I was the band as well as the only audience member. Yeah, he'd said it was a light, fun high and this fit the bill.

The next scene in the movie called for me to play "Leather and Lace" for Chrissy Nicks and Lance Henley. They were sitting very close to each other on the loveseat that made up part of our extended seating area. It had a small coffee table in front of it that held the wine glasses and bottles and our illicit paraphernalia. I'd begun to notice more light touches of their hands on the other's arms and legs. Legs that had pressed together as the night had progressed.

I was at the short end of the table and was actually sitting on a purpose-built guitar stool that Chrissy had gotten for my birthday after I'd received the Gibson. I had a separate, small, double-decker table to my side that held my own paraphernalia, like my phone charger on the upper level and my harmonica, strings, and picks down below.

Lance pinched out the half-finished joint and put it in the saucer that was serving as our ashtray as I began strumming the opening chords.

"Is love so fragile

And the heart so hollow,"

Chrissy sang with just a touch of Stevie's warble.

When she got to,

"Lovers forever

Face to face,"

she looked over at me with a warm smile and I felt a rush of emotion. Then she turned back to Lance and kept singing.

When he got to his lines,

"When I walked into your house

I knew I'd never want to leave,"

I was impressed with the real feeling he put into the words, but for some reason felt a pang of angst as well.

By the time they got to the end, their eyes were locked on each other and their heads had moved steadily closer together. Real yearning seemed to fill both their voices.

"I need you to love me

I need you today

Give to me your leather

Take from me

My lace." *

Then they were kissing.

My fingers kept moving over the strings, but that's when my mind had gone back to that long ago college memory of needing to act if I didn't want to miss out on a woman's desire.

CHAPTER FOUR

It's happened again. I'm shutting off the engine in another parking lot without remembering driving into it. This time it's at our apartment building. How the hell did I not end up in an accident after all?

I head up to our apartment, but it's empty. From the balcony overlooking the pool I see Chrissy and Lance lying on deck chairs. There's a small table between them with some of the ubiquitous red Solo cups that are always around the pool.

My movement up above them must have caught Chrissy's eye, because she's suddenly looking up at me, smiling and waving. I wave back, pantomime changing out of my clothes, and head back inside to put on my swimsuit.

Closing the slider behind me, I step into the living area. Then I stop in my tracks. I'm standing behind my guitar stool; the loveseat and small coffee table are directly ahead. Chrissy has cleaned up while I was at work, so there are no signs of the drinking, smoking or other activities that took place here last night.

But as I stare at the floral pattern on the upholstery, I can see it.

I remember staring at the two of them kissing for a long moment, then placing the Gibson in the floor stand to my right. I'd come off the stool and taken a knee alongside Chrissy on the loveseat, but neither of them noticed because they were deep into each other.

I had laid a hand very lightly on Lance's chest, then reached my other hand up under their connected chins and placed my fingers on the outside of Chrissy's jaw. Again, very lightly, I pulled her face toward me, while holding Lance in place.

When they finally realized they were being separated, both their eyes opened. It took a moment for them to refocus and register my presence and action. Chrissy was dreamy-eyed and relaxed, but then got a look of concern, as she began to realize what she'd been doing.

But by then, I had her face turned far enough towards me that I could lean in and begin kissing her myself. After just a slight hesitation she returned the kiss and I could taste the smoke and wine on her tongue and breath.

I took a good long time enjoying my wife's soft lips, then I broke off the kiss. I smiled at her, then turned her head back toward Lance, while removing my hand from his chest. They'd looked into each other's eyes, but held back, unsure how to proceed.

That was when I had moved around behind Chrissy, leaning up against the arm of the loveseat. I'd reached my arms around her and began unbuttoning her blouse. Her head had tilted downward, watching my fingers work in what was probably stoned wonder. By the time I'd gotten through number four and was working on number five, she was leaning forward and kissing Lance again.

Yes, their first kiss had been illicit, but it really was the kind of thing a person could let go under the circumstances. Even laugh off under the haze of mary jane and wine. But their second kiss was on me. As was her blouse opening, her bra coming off, and therefore, his hands reaching up to cup and massage her beautiful little tits.

With that image still in my mind's eye, I go into the bedroom, shuck off everything below the waist and put on a swimming Speedo and then a pair of baggy board shorts over it. I slip into some huarache sandals and grab a large towel and the small gym bag that holds my goggles and sunscreen. Out in the hallway, my keys go into the bag, then I take the elevator down.

Last night's windstorm passed on before dawn and it was a beautiful day. The building staff and probably the tenants have been busy clearing up blown-around furniture and scooping leaves out of the pool, because everything looks as it should.

And, of course, being a beautiful Saturday afternoon, there are plenty of people out taking the sun or lolling in the pool. As I walk, I find myself returning the various greetings in a perfunctory manner, as if on autopilot. I realize that instead of hearing the words they're saying, I'm listening and looking for signs that they know what happened in our apartment last night. Between me, my wife, and the man sitting with her just ten yards away.

But there are no sly looks or covered smiles as if I was taking a cuckold walk of shame. Lance has apparently been as circumspect about his encounter with us, as Chrissy and I had surmised he'd been with his other trysts in the building.

When I reach them, Chrissy is sitting up in her chair and Lance is on his feet holding out a cup to me. From the salt on the rim and the icy top, I take it to be one of his popular margaritas.

His expression is friendly, yet serious. "Bryan," he says simply, "I don't know if this is a thank you, a peace offering, or just a regular welcome home drink, but I hope you'll take it and drink with me."

I think about that for a moment; it's a good question. When I'd seen them together from the balcony, the ember of jealousy that had been quietly waiting had flared to life like a struck match, with the same sulphurous smell. But then I'd gone inside and remembered how things had started on the loveseat, realizing that I was the one who'd struck the first match.

A slight shift of my gaze catches Chrissy watching us pensively. They were both here, in public, even with a table between them. Not up in our bed with nothing between them, including clothes. The ember dies down, unable to catch the kindling of jealousy into flame.

When I reach out and take the cup from Lance's steady hand, she smiles. Then she spins on the chair so she's sitting on its edge and pats the spot next to her.

When I sit down, she leans over and kisses me. Nothing crazy with lots of tongue, but a good solid, loving kiss like she usually gives me in public situations. "Hi, baby," she purrs.

Lance sits down on the edge of his chair facing us and after we finish our kiss, he holds his cup up in a silent toast. Chrissy picks her cup off the table and holds it next to his, waiting. As I bring mine up for the three-way toast, I notice that both of their cups are more than half-empty or is it less than half-full? I can't decide which would be the optimistic or pessimistic view, I just know they're well ahead of me.

We all drink and I gasp. I look at Lance and then down at the two-quart Coleman jug sitting under his chair. "Whew! A little more punch than usual, eh?"

He smiles and moves the thermos jug to the side a bit, exposing a Lemon Fanta bottle behind it. What's inside is obviously not Fanta, lemon or otherwise.

"Only in that one." He nods at my cup and winks. "I thought you might like just a little extra Cuervo in your first one to help you unwind after a busy day at the office." Lance always goes top-shelf with his tequila and the Fanta bottle was his way of staying within the no-glass rule around the pool. Since the liquid inside was clear, not gold, I figure he's loaded me up with Silver Patrón.

"Speaking of work," says Chrissy. "How'd everything go? You're back later than I expected."

"The delay home was actually from an accident on the road. At work everything went as expected; another successful B-T-B." I take another sip of the tasty, but powerful drink.

"B-T-B?" says Lance.

"Burn the Bitch," I answer. "Or, Burned, after the fact."

"Or Burn the Bastard," Chrissy adds, a little testily. "You know it's more usually the guy who's skunking around. But, of course, since our clients are mostly men, we don't go after them as often."

"I'm still not following," says Lance.

"Well, we can't go into details about any clients or cases," I say up front. "But you could probably guess that many divorces are caused by one spouse catting around on the other. Well, no one who's been cheated on is going to want the other to walk away with the house or alimony when they split up, so they try to burn the bitch or bastard by exposing the affair."

Chrissy picks up the thread. "If we can build a case that proves adultery, then our client can usually get away without having to split everything 50-50 in the divorce. In some cases, they can kick them out with nothing, so the bastard is really burned."

Neither of us mentions that the cheater might still get a large pay-out to try and keep the whole thing under wraps. It's simpler to keep the concept to its most basic.

Lance takes a thoughtful sip of his own margarita. "I thought that cheating behaviour didn't have an effect on splitting up assets in a divorce?"

"That's true in some states," says Chrissy, "but not ours."

"Plus," I add, "Our clients often have premarital agreements that do allow adultery to change the outcome of the settlement."

"And today you burned the bitch? Or was it the bastard?"

"That level of detail would be inappropriate," I respond jokingly. "But suffice it to say that the guilty party got burned." I take a long sip, enjoying the cool slide down my throat ending in a burn in the belly. Good tequila really does make a difference.

Lance takes on a more serious tone. "So, Bryan, did you feel like burning the bitch or the bastard today?"

"Or burning them both?" Chrissy adds quietly.

"Ah, the elusive Burn Them Both," I chuckle. "You know, our clients often want us to go after the cheating spouse's accomplice in the affair, but we try to stay clear of those kinds of vendettas. But sometimes it happens, especially if the Other Woman or Man is also married and their own adultery is exposed at the same time.