Two Words

TWO WORDS

She can end it with only two words.

Please read the Standard Disclaimer on Alextasy's Biography page

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This is my ninth stop on a tour of twenty cities. Not all of them are what I would call cities. Some, like this one, are just pit stops on the highway of life--do the gig, chow down, gas up, take a quick breather, then hit the road again. If the stars are aligned, the breather smells prettier than me.

I'm a writer with a new book and my contract says I'm supposed to push it. The stuff I write about is the stuff I know. Bloody battles, lost brothers, undying friendships, dying marriages. Somewhere in the mélange I'll stir in a theme. The futility of war. The cruelty of the human animal. The essential purity of the human soul.

Not that I believe any of that crap. War is a sad necessity. It settles the immediate conflict without fixing the ugly human paradox that caused it--every man, woman and child on this tiny, spinning marble is equally cruel and pure of heart. Both my ex-wives swore they loved me, yet that didn't stop them from breaking their solemn promises so they could satisfy their craving for strange dick. Even the cowards who lured us to a destitute village then detonated the woman in the center of a ring of children believed in the righteousness of their cause.

After signing eight copies of my book for the six fans at the chain bookstore, I drive the rental car chain sedan to the chain motel that looks and smells like all the other chain motels on the tour. Next door is a mall that is also strikingly similar to the one I was at yesterday. I think it's part of the same chain. I wander over to the chain restaurant connected to the mall for an early dinner.

The waitress is polite, but I'm just another customer. This is my third published novel. They pay the bills, but my face isn't well known. Anonymity is fine with me. I can come and go without people mobbing me or trying to get their claws into my money or my soul.

I've always enjoyed walking, even before the Army taught me how to do it right. After the mostly flavorless meal I make a circuit through the mall. The chain bookstore--not the same chain as the one I was in earlier today--has my latest paperback on a prominent end-cap alongside James Higgins. I'm moving up in the world.

Strolling back across the mall parking lot, I notice a small bar tucked into a side road behind the hotel. I didn't see it when I drove in. The logo on the lighted sign isn't from one of those fern-bar chains. No Harleys or rusted pickups in sight, so I guess it's safe enough. I veer off to give it a recon.

Inside, it looks like I've stumbled across that rare gem, a local watering hole. The hardwood decor is upscale with subdued lighting. A Steinway baby grand sits by a postage-stamp dance floor, but it's early and the pianist hasn't shown up yet.

The after-work crowd will start wandering in soon. Several of the tables are occupied. On the near side of the U-shaped bar, a couple with starry eyes is holding hands. On the far side, an attractive single woman sips from a martini glass.

My feet follow my little brain to the far side.

The woman is not a bombshell, but she's well dressed and pleasing to the eye. The scent of her perfume is delicate. Judging by the rings, I'm guessing a housewife waiting for hubby. I take the stool next to her anyway. I can be an arrogant, controlling bastard. After the crap I've been through it occasionally suits my mood to jog people out of their comfort zones. This is one of those occasions. If her husband asks me to move, I will. But he's gonna have to ask nice.

Spying a decent bourbon on the top shelf, I order a double with a splash, no ice. The woman is sipping at a martini with an olive. She ignores me, staring across the bar. That's good. If she's expecting someone she would either say so or at least give me a dirty look. Thankfully, she's not flirty, either. A married woman on the prowl kindles residual anger from both divorces.

Sometimes, however, a married woman at a bar is just looking for a drink and a little conversation. I've come across a few of those. I'm no horn-dog. If that's as far as it goes there will be no complaints from me. It's hard to find decent company on the road that looks and smells as nice as this one does.

So, I ignore her too. I figure she'll let me know soon enough if she's interested in anything else.

It takes most of a minute. The bartender sets my drink in front of me. From the corner of my eye, I watch her head turn, peering first down toward my glass then up for a longer look at me.

You won't find a man like me on the pages of GQ. My cheeks still show the remnants of teen acne. More recent scars make my scraggly beard look patchy. I don't have penetrating blue eyes or perfect white teeth. My suit isn't Armani, and my shoes aren't Ferragamos.

"Nice to find a man who knows how to drink his bourbon," the woman says.

The smooth, alto tone is sultry enough to melt ice cream. I'm in trouble. Before I respond I have to take a slow sip from my tumbler to give my heart rate time to cool down.

With the most poised look I can muster, I turn to her. "Nice to see a woman who knows how to hold her martini."

Her thumb and fingertips are grasping the cocktail low on the stem. So many idiots out there cup the bowl because they think it makes them look sophisticated like some F. Scott Fitzgerald character. We all know what happened to them.

"One's my limit," she says, making a joke out of it. Her sly smile and the teasing way she twirls her glass back and forth tells me she knows what I meant.

I toss one back at her. "I guess that blows my next line where I offer to buy you another."

"Oh, I don't know," she says. Her lips curl into a coy smile. "With the right offer a girl could be tempted."

My heart sinks. She's a delightfully clever woman. We could have traded wits for a while then gone our separate ways. The implied invitation marks her for what she is. I won't be a party to the dissolution of another marriage.

When she lifts the martini to her juicy red lips again, she faces straight across the room the same as before.

As a soldier in a foreign land, I learned to read nuances of human behavior. When you didn't understand the language, it was a matter of survival. My survival as a writer depends on my ability to convey details to my readers through subtle gestures. Conversations are riddled with deceptive noise. Body language rarely lies.

Looking over the top of her glass, the conspicuous lifting of her brow is a message to someone.

I resist the urge to follow her gaze. Instead, I study her for a moment. She is certainly attractive. Her jewelry looks like the real thing. I suspect this woman has few wants where money is concerned. A fair guess places her a little younger than me, in her late twenties or maybe thirties.

The woman is an interesting study in contradictions. Her bare legs are shapely. If they were crossed in front, they would have invited a stray hand. Instead, her ankles are locked demurely underneath, tucked into the crossbar of her stool. The champagne-colored designer dress is a conservative style, except for the provocative neckline that displays her porcelain swells in a way that's clearly meant to draw my eyes. Apart from the lusty red of her lips, her makeup is tasteful. If she's wearing a bra--which I doubt--it is no more than a shelf.

When I raise my eyes, she's watching me gawk at her chest. I shrug with a sheepish smile then lift my own tumbler as I swivel on my stool to face across the bar. Taking a long, slow sip gives me the perfect opportunity to search for her accomplice.

A man is staring at me from a cushioned booth near the door. I missed him when I came in. He quickly looks away when he notices I've turned in his direction. He appears to be about my size. They are obviously a pair. His posture is confident, and the suit fits him well enough to be tailored. With that angular, clean-shaven face and firm jaw, he has the look of a CEO. A glint of gold on his finger adds weight to my theory.

This changes things. Maybe they're looking for a three-way. Then again, I've heard about men who like to watch. Is that what's going on here? My arrogance bubbles back to the surface. There may yet be hope for this night.

"I never told you my name." I extend my hand to the woman. "Jack Galway."

"Galway," she repeats, scrunching her brow as we shake. Then she tosses it off. "Pleased to meet you, Jack. I'm Dana Dryer. Maiden name McCleod."

"Ah, McLeod. Another fine Scottish clan."

"Aye," she winks. She has a genuine smile.

My fingers are loose around my drink on the bar. Dana covers my hand with hers. Her index finger draws tiny, titillating figure eights on the back.

"Do you live in this area, Mr. Galway?"

"Just passing through. I'll be in St. Louis tomorrow." I tell her.

"I have friends in St. Lou," she says, swinging her crossed legs around in front.

Her eyes dilate and she draws a startled breath when I lay my hand on her knee. I'm not sure she was prepared for that. I become the surprised one when she uncrosses her legs slow enough to keep my hand in place, then spreads them about six inches apart. An engraved invitation would have been less transparent.

A struggle is going on behind her eyes. It's almost as though they are pleading with me, 'Please, don't...' even as her body opens itself to me. This scene is becoming more complex by the second.

"How long have you lived in this little burg?" I ask, pretty sure she doesn't live here either.

My fingers sneak under the hem of her dress to stroke the inside of her knee. She stops teasing my hand and balls her fist.

"We, uh...I live about halfway between here and St. Lou," she says. Her voice is unsteady and the silky alto is now strained.

"I presume by 'we', you mean you and your husband." My fingertips begin drawing their own little figures on her delicate skin.

"My husband," she says. She tosses a skittish microsecond glance across the room. "Yes. I'm married. He's not your concern."

"I'm not concerned in the least Dana." My smile is patient. "But I have to wonder if that gentleman staring at us from the booth by the door is concerned. I presume he's your husband?"

"Ohgod! You know..." She starts hyperventilating.

"Take a deep breath, Dana. Just relax." Withdrawing my hand from her leg, I close it gently around her tensed fist. "Nothing is going to happen without your permission."

"I...I'm not... I mean, it's been so long. I forgot how to do this."

"You're doing fine. Why don't you have a little more of your martini?" When she tosses it back in one gulp, I ask, "Would you like another?"

She smiles. "I think that might be a good idea."

I motion to the bartender for a couple of refills.

"Would you care to tell me what's going on, Dana?"

"I feel so stupid," she says. "This is difficult to talk about."

"I won't judge you. I promise."

She searches my eyes. When she finds what she's looking for, the anxiety visibly drains from her body. She breathes easier. Her fist unfolds and she rolls it over to clasp my hand.

"We are talking about children," she says. "My husband is, well...he's not like most other men."

"Does he hurt you?"

"No! Nothing like that," she says. Then she laughs. "Well, I guess you could think of it that way. He's sorta big. I mean, really big. Down there." Her gaze falls into my lap.

"Sometimes it's uncomfortable when you make love."

Dana nods.

I've heard the stories from female acquaintances. Big dicks and big egos can be a bad combination in more ways than one.

Our drinks arrive. Leaving our hands intertwined, she reaches across with the other one to take another long drink. I do the same, secretly watching the eminent Mr. Dryer chatting up the waitress. Dana doesn't appear to notice.

She says, "Before we commit ourselves to a family, I want to feel a...'normal' man just once again." She gives me a sidelong look. "I assume you are, y'know...'normal'?"

"Somewhere in the average range," I chuckle. Actually, I'm ever-so-slightly on the bigger side of average, but no one has ever complained. Certainly not my second ex-wife. I think she could smell ten inches from a half block away. Especially the dark-skinned ones.

Ironically, it appears that my proximity to the high point on the bell curve puts me in the running for Dana's one-and-only extramarital partner. I have to laugh to myself. Who woulda' thunk?

Something doesn't add up, though. Why would a happily married man with a prodigious member agree to let his attractive wife fuck around with another man? Is he sterile, and they're looking for a donor? Or could this be some sort of contest where he gets to show off his alpha male appendage?

Hmm, alpha male... Yeah, that's it.

Lifting the back of her hand to my lips, I place a kiss there. She purrs. Then I gaze straight into her eyes.

"Dana, if your intent is that I should take you to my room and enjoy your gorgeous body, then I can't deny I'm interested."

Her eyes brighten. "We already have a room at the hotel next door," she says, squeezing my hand.

"Before we go anywhere, I need one more thing from you."

"Sure," she says. She sounds thrilled. "What is it?"

"I need you to stop lying to me."

Her chin drops and she gasps. Her hand flies up to cover her open mouth.

Slowly, the corners of her lips turn up. "I should have known. You're a smart guy, Jack. Not many things get by you, do they?"

"Two wives got by me," I tell her, and she gives me a sorrowful look. "Neither of them paid close attention to the details when they were reciting their vows."

Dana blushes. She stares at the floor.

"How many has he had?" I ask.

"He says it was only one. I know about two others." She continues looking down. "One of them was my best friend."

I suspect there are more. She probably does, too. A handsome, successful and well-endowed man? Yeah, lots more.

Hooking a finger under Dana's chin, I bring her eyes up.

"Do you seriously expect this to fix everything?"

She lets out a quiet snort. "Not really. I'm just hoping once he gets a little taste of how it feels..."

We both know better. I'm not going to burst her bubble, though.

My fingers slide under her dress again, a few inches past her knee. Her grip on my other hand tightens.

"You're sure you want to do this?" I ask.

"Yes, Jack. I'm sure."

"I know you're not wearing a bra."

Her mouth drops open. "How did you...?"

"Are you wearing panties?"

Her lips twist into a sly smirk. She opens her legs wider. "There's one way to find out."

"Here's how this is going to work." My arrogant, controlling side re-emerges. "This is my show. We do everything exactly the way I want it. Any time you feel uncomfortable for any reason, just say two words--'We're done'. Then I'll stop whatever I'm doing and walk away. Got it?"

She nods.

"Say it, Dana."

"This is your show. When I'm ready to stop, I tell you 'We're done'." She hesitates. "But..."

"But what?"

"My husband, Mitch--that's his name. He has to be there. He said he wants to be sure I don't get hurt."

I'm sure he has another agenda. Fortunately, I travel with an agenda shredder.

"So long as he agrees to abide by whatever I say," I tell Dana. "I'm not going to make him suck me or anything. In fact, he's not allowed to touch either of us. You are the only one who can stop it."

"Okay, let me go tell him that--"

"You never answered my question. Are you wearing panties?"

"No," she smirks.

"Why not?"

"Um, because I want to get fucked?"

"Who do you want to fuck you?"

"I want you, Jack."

"What if I wasn't here? Would you have found another guy?"

Her brow creases. "Uh, yeah. Probably..."

"Would that guy be your husband?"

"Absolutely not."

"So, you've come to a bar without your panties, hoping some guy will fuck you, as long as that guy isn't your husband. I think that's the definition of a cheating slut."

Dana grins.

"What are you, Dana?"

"I'm a cheating slut."

"Has the cheating slut ever been slapped while she's getting fucked?"

She gapes at me. "Are you serious?"

"My show, Dana. Two words can stop it any time. Say them now and it's over. Do you trust me?"

She eyes me suspiciously without answering for several seconds. Then the soft smile comes back.

"Yeah" she says. "I don't know why, but I trust you, Jack."

"Has the cheating slut ever had cum dripping out of her gorgeous ass?"

"Ohgod..." Her hand claps over her mouth. An even bigger smile grows behind it. She's interested.

Then her hand drops, and she challenges me. "Wait a minute. How would you know whether I've got a gorgeous ass? I've been sitting here on my big, fat tush since you showed up. For all you know it's flabby and wrinkled."

"If your backside shines near half as beautiful as the rest of you, it will eclipse every other full moon I've seen."

It's a patent lie, and she knows it. But she's a woman. She will accept any flattery that appeals to her vanity. A delicate color rises in her cheeks.

When she tells me, "You should have been a poet." I have to stifle a laugh. I haven't yet mentioned my occupation.

She has managed to cleverly side-step my question, however. I'm not letting that go.

"You still didn't tell me. Have you ever felt the heat of a man's semen boiling inside your rectum?"

Dana draws an excited breath and the flush in her cheeks blazes. Her lower lip curls inward between her teeth. Just as quick, the excitement settles into a calm determination. She aims a cool, laser gaze at me.

"We'll talk about it."

I know better. Dana's already made up her mind. I'm pretty sure it isn't because she can't resist my dick in her dirty place. She has an agenda, too.

Curling my fingers around her nape, I pull her into a forceful kiss. She struggles for a few seconds before I sense her surrender, cementing our deal. Her arms come up around my neck. The kiss turns steamy, and her legs spread further as my hand travels up along her thigh. I appreciate fur on a woman's snatch, and I'm pleased she isn't shaved. My middle finger finds her slippery pocket. Twisting it up inside makes her whimper and squirm.

Without warning, I withdraw and pull away. Getting my picture in the paper for being thrown out of a bar for lewd behavior would probably violate the morals clause of my contract.

Dana is breathing heavily. Her eyes are smoldering with desire.

"What room?" I ask.

"327," she says, showing a tight smile as I suck on the tasty tip of my middle finger.

"Go talk to Richard."

She looks confused. "His name is Mitch."

"Tonight, his name is Richard. Richard Cranium. Also known as Dick Head."

Dana snorts.

I turn serious. "If he agrees, you leave together. I'll join you in your room after I finish my drink. If it's a no-go, sit down at his table. I'll go away and you'll never see me again."

"Don't worry," she says. "This is not a matter for discussion. You're not going anywhere until I say those two words."

I like a strong woman. Especially a strong woman who's smart and sexy. Dana surprises me with a peck on the lips. Along with most of the men in the room I watch her saunter around the bar to her husband. The back of her dress is low-cut, and she's got a sassy wiggle in her butt. It's a damn nice butt. Plenty of cushion. Yeah, I'm going to enjoy this.

They talk. They argue. He glares at me, then they argue some more. She stands over him the whole time with her fists on her hips. Finally, she spins and marches through the door. He follows, shooting one more nasty look at me on his way out.

Savoring the last of my bourbon and licking my middle finger, I'm thinking there are going to be a lot more nasty looks from Mr. Richard Cranium before we're done.