My car slows to a stop as I pull into the parking lot at Royale, an out of the way bar on the south end of Orlando, housed in a low slung brick building that has seen much better days.  It doesn't feel like it's been ten years since this place was a hot spot for my husband and me, back when we were romantically poor, living hand to mouth, hanging out at the local bar to avoid turning on the heat in our criminally tiny apartment.

Years later, it seems like life has come full circle. I purposely make regular stop-ins to this bar, even though it's out of my way. It's like a security blanket, comforting and familiar, that serves good, strong drinks with staff that doesn't chat me up, trying to be my friend, get me drunk or depressed so I'll buy more booze. I can walk in, take a seat, order a drink and keep to myself.

What I need tonight is a good strong drink and to keep to myself. I was invited to hang out with my coworkers from Spectrum Insurance after a long, boring shift but they love this dippy little place called O'Charley's. They fancy themselves to be the Cheers of Orlando, where everybody knows your name. Mostly, they want to get into your business and be ‘bar buddies'. The last thing I need is a bar buddy.

I climb out of my car, my heels crunching through loose gravel and dirt. The glowing sign in the front window emits a buzz as I swing the door open and step into a dimly lit space that smells very faintly of stale beer. I'm craving the smoothness of whiskey or the crisp bite of tequila or a refreshing splash of vodka. Mostly I'm craving how the indulgence will mean I'll forget this day, this week, this month-maybe the past two years, if only for a while.

All I need is to coast. Just for a while.

My favorite seat, third stool on the right, beckons me to slide into it. It feels so much like coming home that it's scary. Tim, my favorite bartender is working tonight. He places a small, square napkin in front of me and leans onto the gleaming wood of the bar.

"Merry Christmas, though belated. What are we starting with tonight?"

Good question, I think. Do I want to ease my way into a stupor, or go right for the jugular and start downing shots?

Shots it is.

"Cranberry Kamikaze," I tell him, hanging my purse on the back of my chair. I'm settling in. "Make it a double."  

In moments, vodka, cranberry, lime and triple sec are set in front of me. As quickly as they appear, I toss them back, relishing the warmth of the alcohol and the sweetness of the fruit as it slides down my throat.

Ahhhhhhhh. "I needed that."

"Rough one?" Tim stacks the glasses, dumping them into the bin below the bar. A glass of water appears in their place. "I can always tell when you start with a double."

Tim doesn't press for details, and maybe that makes me want to open up. Or maybe the alcohol is already starting to affect me, because the stress of the last few days tumbles out of my mouth.

"He took my kids," I blurt. "To Montana. Can you believe that? To visit his..." I can't say the word without practically spitting it. "His wife's family. Like he cares about those people. He didn't even talk to me about it. He just bought the tickets and then called me told me he was taking them."

"Sucks," says Tim.

"Tell me about it. My family all went to Kentucky for Christmas. I had to work today, so I couldn't go. My Christmas feast was a turkey pot pie and half a bottle of Jameson."

He cringes. "I know, I know. I should drink half a bottle of white wine with turkey pot pie." I suck down more water while trying to decide on my next drink. "The thing is... I don't think having the kids for Christmas is all that important to him."

"Come on, Riss. He's their dad. It has to mean something to him."

I wag my head, then stop because the shots really are already working their magic. "Do you know what it's like to have to be nice to someone you hate? Like, someone you despise with every fiber of your being? But I did it. I very nicely asked to have the kids for Christmas this year, since he took an extra week this summer. All of a sudden they have plane tickets and he's taking my babies to Montana to ride horses on a ranch."

Tim nods, understanding. For the last four years, he's had to listen to me whine about my ex-husband, Graham Lowe. Tall, dark and handsome. Successful investment banker. The toast of Orlando's financial scene.

Cheater. Bastard. Manipulative motherfucker. Pure Asshole. For starters.

"And do you think he even had the kids call me to say Merry Christmas?" I pout, folding my arms across my chest. "I mean, it was nice to talk to them, but it was one in the morning, here. I was an afterthought."

 Four years ago, I walked in on Graham and his assistant mid coitus on top of his desk. I really thought people only did that shit in movies. Then again, Graham probably got the idea from a movie and thought it would be hot. He always wanted me to do some weird move he saw in porn.

It took two years to come to an agreement about alimony, child support, a parenting plan for our children and division of our shared assets. He got the better end of the deal-because he made the better end of the money. Now he uses our children against me, like a pawn in some twisted game in which the goal is to inflate his ego and show his power.

And to punish me, I suppose. For what? Insisting that he not fuck everything in a pair of stilettos?

A knot builds between my shoulder blades. I attempt to massage it out but my hands aren't nearly strong enough. The thought of him and her- whom he married the day after our divorce was final- and my children pretending to be one big happy family gives me a stress headache.

"Hey Tim... how about a vodka and Diet Coke?"

The front door to Royale bursts open, inviting a whip of cool air to wind around my bare legs. Out of the corner of my eye I watch a figure slip inside. The place is empty, and although he has his pick of any other seat in the house, he plants his ass in the one next to me. Most of his face is covered in barely controlled beard growth, but he has a head full of wavy, dark hair with patches of grey at the temples. I roll my eyes and prepare for the shit storm of small talk that comes with sitting at a bar-alone- on the day after Christmas.

Tim slides a napkin in front of his newest patron. "What can I start you with?"

"Just a lite beer for now."  His voice hits a spot on my spine, a tenor that's a combination of silk and grit with the slightest hint of not from around here.

I'm trying hard to pretend he's not really there. Despite sitting next to me, he's doing the same. Our drinks are served at the same time and we sit in silence, the only sounds coming from the low murmur of the TV over the bar and the crackle of leftover Christmas music from the overhead speakers.

"Hey, can you tune into the Redskins game?" Tim grabs the remote and points it at the TV, turning it from a droll TNT drama to a snowy football game. "Thanks. Let's see if the Skins got anything on the Eagles tonight."

I snort, then regret it since he takes it as an invitation to talk to me. "I know; it's kind of a long shot. Are you into football?"

"Nope," I answer, sipping my drink which is blessedly more vodka than Coke. "That matchup sounds like the Problematic Olympics."

He laughs a guffaw that seems familiar to me. If I wasn't a little fuzzy I could probably place it faster. "The what? What is the... what Olympics?"

"The Washington Racial Slurs versus the Philadelphia Dog Killers. The Problematic Olympics."

In my peripheral vision, I watch his head rear back and then dip forward. "Oh. You're talking about-yeah, okay. You're one of those."

"If by one of those, you mean one of those annoying women that that care about Native Americans and innocent animals, then yes, one of those."

"I'm not... I wasn't saying... I'm just trying to watch a game."

"You asked me a question and I answered it."

"After you felt the need to comment. I wasn't actually talking to you."

He picks up the bottle in front of him and takes a long, slow swig before setting it back down. Then he opens his mouth again.  "Hey...I didn't mean anything by the comment, by the way. I was just making conversation."

"I don't need your apology. Do you mind scooting over a couple of seats?" I nod to the empty chairs all around us. "There's plenty of room. We don't need to be quite so cozy."

"I wasn't apologizing. And to be honest, this is a better seat to see the TV. I'm from DC, originally. The Redskins are the home team. I was just trying to check in on the game."

I chuckle, slurping more courage and sass. I mean vodka. "You remind me of this guy I used to know a long time ago. He was deep into the Redskins because he was from DC. All he talked about was going home to see a Skins game, nonstop chatter if the Redskins were playing. Who cares?"

"We like our team, I guess."

"I guess. He was kind of a pretentious jerk. It's one of a few things I remember about him."

He laughs again. Where have I heard that laugh before? "Why's he gotta be a pretentious jerk?"

"He just was, okay? It was a long time ago. He's probably still a pretentious jerk."

"You know how you sound, right?"

"No, how do I sound?"

"Jilted. You sound like he didn't pay attention to you so he's a jerk."

"You mind keeping your armchair psychology to yourself?" I scoff and toss back a healthy swallow of my drink, then dip into my purse for my phone. I amuse myself with social media- Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, anything to get off this guy's radar.

"If you wouldn't mind not posting that I'm here, I'd appreciate it."

I pause, slowly turning my head to get my first good look at him. Or at least his profile. He's staring intently at the TV mounted above the bar.  "Seriously? I have no intention of mentioning some random guy at a bar."

At my comment, he turns his head in my direction and his eyes, full of incredulity, meet mine.

And in that instant, I know. I'd know those eyes anywhere.  I know why his laugh sounds familiar. I know why he sounds like that guy I knew from DC. He is that guy I knew from DC.

I also know why he asked me not to mention he was here.  He's famous... wildly recognizable. At least outside of Orlando.

"Holy shit. I know you."

He chuckles, but it's not a that was a funny joke chuckle. It's a yeah, right chuckle.

"No, I mean it. I know you. Or... I knew you. We both went to Dr. Phillips High School. You went there in between seasons of that Disney show."

His eyes, those eyes I remember from at least twenty years ago, that I'll potentially remember for the rest of my life, are a piercing blue. He looks different, especially with the thick beard that covers his face. He sounds different-a deeper voice that has lost a lot of the obvious northeast tang it used to have. He's certainly taller and... more built.

I guess I should expect that a person I haven't seen since high school would eventually grow up. I certainly had.

And as the memories of that year that he and I were in the same English class at Dr. Phillips High School roll through my mind, I'm simultaneously embarrassed and indignantly angry.

He looks me up and down, then shakes his head. "You don't ring any bells for me. What's your name?"

"Marissa Lowe. Well, back then it was Powell. I used to hang out with Robbie­- you know, the math geek that used to tutor half the football team. And that girl Kristen with the big thick glasses everyone picked on."

Recognition lights up his face and colors his high cheekbones. "Oh, the Nerd Herd?"

"It wasn't-"

I groan, clenching my teeth, trying to stem the tide of my emotions. I'm too vulnerable for this walk down memory lane. It feels like I'm back in high school again, being judged by this kid that thinks he's a bigshot because he's on some TV show. Back then, the Disney Channel was a premium add-on, like HBO or Showtime. I'd never even watched the show because my parents refused to pay extra for children's programming.

"Anyway. You probably remember this tall, lanky guy in your group of friends.  Kinda looked like you, a little. Dark hair, blue eyes, big nose. He played basketball. Graham Lowe?"

"Yeah." He nods, his eyes drifting to some spot just past me as his mind wanders backward. "I think I remember him, yeah. What about him?"

"I dated him. Well, I started dating him after you left Dr. Phillips. We got married and had two kids."

"Oh, no kidding? Congrats on that." He's actually quiet for a minute, his eyes on the game. I hope I'm going to get away with not having to explain why I'm not with Graham and our children.

"But you're here." He lifts an arm to gesture the empty bar, the sad Christmas music, the pitiful football game, the bartender flipping through receipts and pretending not to listen to our conversation.  "Alone. The day after Christmas. Gotta be a story there."  

I will myself to not blush crimson, using my cocktail straw to poke at the ice in my glass.  "We're divorced. Now that he's a rich investment banker, he prefers the company of women with porn star names."

"What...." He laughs. "What is a porn star name?" That laugh again. Now that I can place it, it makes me smile. It reminds me of younger days, simpler times. Before I knew my ex-husband was a piece of shit.

"Jenna. Like Jameson? Just sounds like a porn star name to me."

"Because it is a porn star's name. But I get what you mean. Like Candy. Or Misty."

"Exactly." I shake my glass of ice at Tim, my sign that I'm ready for another. He hops to it, replacing my empty with a full glass. "And against my wishes, he took our children to some barren tundra called Montana for Christmas."

"That sucks, man. I'm sorry. What are you having?"  When I tell him, he orders the same.  "So, you and Graham Lowe, huh?"  He murmurs, slurping a sip off the top of his drink.

"Why do you sound surprised?"

He shrugs a shoulder. "If I remember Graham right... and I remember you right..." He pauses. "I don't want you to take this as an insult-"

"Too late."

"I just mean... you kinda... you didn't look like this back then."

 I want to be offended, but he's right. I was short with not a single, discernible curve to be found. My shoulder length hair tended to puff up around my face and I held serious nerd tendencies. I would much rather sit in the library with a book than attend a sporting event.

That is, until I met Josh my sophomore year. I sat two seats behind and to the left of him in English and spent so many class hours staring at him that the teacher and I had to have a chat about paying attention.

I wanted his attention. And I tried to get it. I straightened my hair, tried to dress a little better, a little more trendy. Curiously, I just happened to be where his friends always hung out. But he never noticed me, and after only a year he was gone, back to taking classes on the set of the Mickey Mouse Club while the season filmed. After that year, he opted to go back to Maryland and go to school with his friends. He never came back to Dr. Phillips High School, though I heard he stayed friends with the kids from there.

Over that summer, my body finally caught up with the rest of the female population. I dropped some baby fat and grew an inch, which helped a lot.  I developed some womanly curves, let my hair grow long which eliminated the big puff of curls, instead creating waves that frame my face. I grew into my big, amber flecked eyes and my skin cleared. And unlike Josh, Graham took notice. We started dating, and I tried to get over that cute guy from DC who was probably going to make it big. At least that's what everyone was saying.

"Maybe I hit puberty and a growth spurt."

"Looks like you did."

It's true what they say about women, that we hit our stride in our mid-thirties. Despite my ex-husband's penchant and preference for younger, leggy (and flexible, for that matter) blondes, I garner my fair share of complimentary smiles when out in the wild, specifically when I am dressed like I am today-hip hugging pencil skirt, form fitting short sleeved cotton sweater with a v-neck that's almost cut too low, heels just high enough to show off my legs but low enough that I don't resemble a baby deer when I walk in them.

He nods appreciatively and I feel a burst of heat in the pit of my stomach and a reminiscent tightening in my chest. I think it's called attraction, something I haven't felt in so long I barely recognize it. I remember that I like it.

"So did you," I compliment, waving a hand toward him.

"It's just Father Time doing his thing, really."

He's trying to be modest but the red flannel button-up he's wearing over a white t-shirt stretches across his shoulders in a way that says he's solid. Not ripped, not even necessarily muscular, but firm. A long glance reveals well-formed pecs and taut abs, not a beer belly hanging over the band of worn, stylishly ripped jeans.

"Checkin' me out?" My eyes pop back up to his face. His expression tells me he's amused and not bothered by my extended look.

"Repaying the favor. You did the same thing to me ten minutes ago."

I suck down the rest of my drink and shake my glass at Tim. He gives me look and I know what it means. He wants me to slow down. "And a glass of water." Reluctantly, he begins to mix my new drink.  

"He watches out for you. That's the sign of a good bartender."

"It's the sign of a bartender that doesn't want to have to roll me out of here." Tim serves my drink and my water. To appease him, I down the water first.

"So, this is clearly not the happening spot on a Thursday night." We both take a look around. The bar has gained a whopping three more patrons-one person on a stool and a couple sitting at a table, perilously close together. It's an extremely slow night.

"Saturdays and Sundays are the hot nights around here. Thursdays? Not so much. The only reason I know it exists is because I used to live around the corner."

"From here?" His voice squeaks in surprise. "In this neighborhood?"

I nod, sipping my drink, more slowly this time. Tim sets out a bowl of peanuts and we both grab a handful. "Graham and I lived in a little one bedroom a block or so away from here. I went to Rollins, he went to UCF. It wasn't that bad. Kind of romantic, in a poor college student kind of way."

"Sure. It's one of those Lifetime movies in the making."

"Yeah. The Betty Broderick story. You know that lady that put her husband through law school, then he becomes this hot shot lawyer and decides he wants to trade in his wife for a younger model?"

"She shoots him right?"

"After she drove a truck through his front door. Shot him and his wife. In bed."

"That's... crazy." He laughs but I know he's wondering.

  "I'm not about to shoot my ex." I pop a peanut into my mouth. "At least, I don't think I am. But I put up with a lot of shit while he was building his career, only for him to bang the first thing that..."

I inhale a deep, cleansing breath and cut myself off. No whining to the high school friend slash famous person sitting next to you at the bar where you prefer to get sloshed because you know the bartender will make sure you get home in one piece.

"So why are you here? I mean, not here, but in Orlando? Don't you live in LA?"

"I've been in town for a while. This is home. My family lives here."

"And they make you so happy that you seek out dive bars and take over the TV and bother women?"

"Well..." He seems to blush, but he keeps talking. "You know that thing where you come home for the holidays and you really enjoy your time with your family but after a while there's too much togetherness? You know, too much of Aunt Judy asking why you're almost forty and not married and too much of your mom telling you to shave, for heaven's sake and too much of your brother and his happy marriage and cute kid reminding you of everything you don't have. I love them. I do... but... you know?"

"Yeah, I know that exact thing. It's Riss, you've been divorced two years now. It's time you got over it. Jenna's a nice girl, get along for the kids. And Rissy, my neighbor's sister's Aunt's son is a doctor. I mean, he's a Podiatrist, but he's an MD. He's only balding up top...stop being so picky!"

He laughs, loudly this time, nodding as I imitate my Great Aunt Shirley, who gives me the same speech every time I see her. "So you get me."

"I do. They love you but their love is exhausting. I can't breathe." I pause to peer at him, my head cocked slightly to the left. "You seem suffocated."

"Among other things."

"Other things like..." 

"Like frustrated. Burnt out. Tired." He smiles, tipping his head in my direction. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing. Trying to get under my skin, get me to talk. Tomorrow, all my secrets will be on the internet."

"After going through my divorce while all of Orlando watched me fall apart, then having to rebuild my life, I understand more than you know.  I'm not that kind of person."

He doesn't say anything and I don't push. Instead I elbow him and flash a smile. "I didn't even recognize you with that beard. Nice incognito mode."

"Thanks, I guess."

"So how did you end up here, specifically at Royale?"

"To be honest, I was trying to visit a buddy to watch this game. He must have fat fingered his address...I got lost. I saw the sign and the empty parking lot. I thought it would be a warm place to grab a drink and figure out where I am."

"Do you know where you are yet?"

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he empties his drink, throws back another handful of peanuts and glances at the score on the TV. The Eagles are beating the shit out of the Redskins. 

"Maybe I ended up where I needed to be," he says, finally.

I take a look around the bar, dark and dank, dotted sparsely with a few lonely souls.  I'd stopped in to drown my sorrows and feel sorry for myself because I couldn't spend Christmas with my children, but I feel like I've gotten what I came for and it's time to go.

"So, are you still going to visit your friend?"

He shrugs. "No point. The Skins can't come back from this beating. He's an Eagles fan, so it'd just be listening to him gloat all night. Plus I owe him fifty bucks now."

"Well, no pressure at all... but... I thought you might want to get out of here. I have vodka and soda at home. And I'm hungry." I nod toward the empty bowl between us. "Those peanuts aren't gonna cut it."

 

 

My parents raised me better than this. I swear. And people might be surprised to know that I don't find myself in these situations often, the kinds of situations where I meet a nice woman at a bar and she invites me to follow her home. It happens less often than you might think.

It's more likely that I meet a nice woman at a bar and she expects to come home with me. On occasion, I fulfill that expectation but more often than not, I see that trap coming a mile away and I try to steer clear.

Why I didn't see this coming tonight, I don't know. Maybe I'm off, a little. I mean, I've been off for a while. It's part of the reason why I've been in Orlando since Thanksgiving. I came home like usual and just... never left. Made my mom happy. It's been nice to dump the schedule, hang with my dad, share a beer and talk like old times.

But with the main holiday over, the family time and constant togetherness started to get under my skin. I'm a nice guy, don't get me wrong, and I do love my family. But... I'm used to being alone, doing my own thing. Having to constantly consider other people and their time and their feelings... man, if I want that, I'll just start dating again.

And I don't want to start dating again. The last date I had was a disaster. That girl is probably still on Twitter, telling everyone I'm a washed up loser because I took her to dinner and dared to not be attracted enough to bring her home with me. My attorney wants to send her a Cease and Desist. I'm holding off on doing anything like that. I think she'll let it go... eventually.

The truth is, she didn't turn my crank. And I guess it's not her fault, because nothing and no one has turned my crank in a really long time.

Until tonight. Which is probably why I got in my rental-a slick Jeep that almost makes me want to trade in my Benz-and kept my eye on Marissa's Infiniti until we arrived at her house, a modest split level in a middle class subdivision. I pull in behind her and sit in my car until I see the glow of her headlights fade and her door opens.

Before I can get out of the car, my phone rings. It's Alex, who I was supposed to be hanging out with. I feel bad for basically blowing him off, but I'm watching Marissa get out of her car, one long leg at a time, and I feel like Alex will forgive me.

"Hey man," I almost whisper. I open my car door and start to climb out of the driver's seat. "Change of plans, sorry."

"You could have called. I made nachos!"

I chuckle. "Uh... well I'm sure those would have tasted great about an hour ago, but you gave me the wrong address or something. I ended up someplace else and the game happened to be on..."

"Yeah? So you saw my Eagles beat the shit out of your Skins, right?"

"I saw. I saw." Marissa walks toward her front door and nods her head for me to follow. I follow her alright, my eyes full of her ass in that skirt.  "Yeah, so I'm gonna have to take a raincheck. I'm sure I'll see you before I have to head back to LA."

"You better. And you better bring me that bill you owe me on our bet."

"I... I can't even believe you got me to bet on that game."

"Don't be a sore loser, J."

"I'm not. I just... I'm an idiot." Obviously, since I'm following this woman I haven't seen since I was fourteen into her home. Alone. "I'll have your cash the next time I see you. Promise. I gotta go."

"Hey... are you... did you snag some ass?"

As I'm watching her wander through her living room, snapping on lamps and the TV, I grin.  "What a classless way to put that. Catch you up later."

"Let me guess," she says, dropping her purse on the table. "Your friend asked if you were on a date."  

"In a really... really crass way... yes."

She gives me a look, sort of a knowing smile. "So, what can I get you? I have just about everything."

"Uh... I'm not a liquor connoisseur really. What are you having?"

She shrugs, turning toward the fireplace. At the press of a button, it bursts into flame. "Probably a Jack and Coke."

"Sounds good to me. Light on the Jack."

"Coming right up." She snatches up a half empty liquor bottle and a dirty glass and carts them away, out of sight. When she returns, she busies herself in a corner of the room, temporarily obscured by a dry, heavily decorated fir tree.

"Have a seat. It's not much, but it's home."

I sink into the couch and venture a look around the place. It's nice, but I can tell it's because she's tried hard to make it look that way. It's small but cozy, with microfiber furniture in deep eggplant, taupe walls covered with photos of her and whom I assume are her kids. They're cute and fortunately look more like her than her ex, who is in exactly one photo, a cheesy Sears style family portrait. Small, in a tarnished silver frame, years old apparently, placed at the very edge of the mantel. Three stockings, stuffed to the gills, hang from hooks above the fireplace, which is decorated with holiday greenery.

A six person table made of dark wood sits in an alcove off of what I could guess was the kitchen, but I can't see around the corner. Curtains, in the same color as the furniture, are drawn against all of the windows and a sliding door that leads outside.

Marissa steps around the tree and hands me a glass of dark brown liquid. She's toting one for herself in her other hand.

"Graham has four trees at his house. All fake. The kids wanted a real tree, so we went and picked it out, but... it didn't look this big in the lot." She reaches around the tree, bending over to give me another look at that ass in that skirt-it really is something. She's definitely all grown up.

The tree, weighted down with too many strands of lights and mismatched ornaments, begins to twinkle and glow. "May as well get one more night out of it. It's going out in the garbage tomorrow."

"It looks like it used to be a nice one."

"It was," she says with a deep sigh and, kicking off her heels, slips onto the couch next to me. Close, but not uncomfortably so. She turns and tucks one leg under the other, then takes a deep sip from her glass.

"You really miss them." It's not a question. It's obvious. Palpable. Her mood has changed, just in the few minutes we've been in the house. "You're not like; thank God the kids are gone. It's... you're really torn up about it."

She nods and hums and her eyes, gorgeous brown with amber flecks, gloss over. "It's not just that I miss them. It's..." She shakes her head and downs another splash.

"It's...what?"

"You didn't come here to listen to me whine about my ex-husband and our children and... my life."

"Maybe I did." I stretch my legs under the table and pry off my shoes. My toes involuntarily stretch and spread, taking in the warmth of the room. The bar had been cold. "It's obviously bothering you. You should get it off your chest."

"Now who's trying to get under whose skin? Tomorrow, all my secrets will be on the internet."

This brings a chuckle. "Honey, I wouldn't even know how to put your secrets on the internet. They're safe with me."

"I don't have any secrets. When you're married to a hotshot like Graham Lowe, one of Orlando's premier Investment Bankers, people feel like they can pontificate about your life in the Entertainment section of the Sunday paper. Our divorce played out like a soap opera."

"I might know a little something about that life."

She blushes, her skin turning a light pink. I don't know if it's from the Jack Daniels or the heat, or if it's that she has to be reminded that people know my name. "Yeah, I guess you might know something about that. It's a shock, you know? To see someone else's version of your life."

"And to hear what everyone thinks is wrong with you and their suggestions on what you need to do to live your life the way they want you to live it."

"Exactly! I mean, if I had a quarter for every clueless columnist who thought I was throwing away my future because I wanted a divorce instead of taking Graham back after he cheated on me?" She huffed, her pretty eyes rolling in disgust. "But he didn't just cheat. He openly had a relationship with that woman. I was pretty much the last to know about it."

"I mean... not that I've been an angel in all my relationships, but why didn't he just file for divorce? Why sneak around, even openly so, with someone else?"

"Because it would mean having to pay me. Having to split everything we acquired together. Having to share the kids." She tosses back a few swallows of her drink before she continues. "And the kids are a whole another topic. He fought for shared custody, not because he loves them and wants to be a part of their lives, but because he knows I love them and he's punishing me for not taking the deal he wanted me to take."

"That's kinda... no, it's really shady. What was the deal?"

"He thought a divorce would hurt his image. Lowe Investments does well but it's still pretty new in the game. He offered me a deal where we would stay married, he would fuck whomever he wanted so long as he kept it under wraps and he would give me money to look the other way."

"Could you... you know... fuck anybody too?"

"I had to keep it quiet. Never mind that the entire city already knew that he was screwing his assistant. During the early years of his firm, I made all of the money. I supported him and his dream, even when he didn't turn a profit for five years.  He was supposed to be paying me back for my loyalty. I was disgusted by him. I didn't want to married to him a second longer than necessary."

"Well at least you don't have to deal with the guy anymore. Right?"

"Right. Unless it has to do with our children, we don't speak. Unfortunately, he likes to speak about the children a lot, to tell me what he is and isn't going to pay for."

"Well, so... he's out of town right? With your kids, I know, but you don't really have to think about him. Or talk about him. At all. It's kind of like a vacation from him."

The last of her drink slides down her throat and she sets the glass on the table in front of her. "I guess I could think of it that way. Like a vacation. A vacation from Graham. And Jenna."

"Yeah. And on this vacation, maybe you have a... friend."

Marissa begins to catch my drift and now I know the blush is because of me. "A friend, huh?"

"Well, yeah. We'll loosely describe it like that."

"I can work with that. Friend." She reaches across the small space between us and rests her hand on my thigh. High up on my thigh, so high up that I don't have any doubt where her mind is going.

And to show that I'm not opposed to her line of thinking, I lay my hand on top of hers and give a gentle squeeze.

"So. I told you my story. Maybe too much of my story. What's yours?"

I lift a shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. I'm not one for rehashing all my problems. Not with strangers. Especially not with strangers I'm hoping to sleep with. "Don't really have one."

"Oh come on, mister tired and burnt out, hanging out in a bar the day after Christmas to get away from your family. Gotta be a story there." Her words echo mine. I almost regret saying them. I guess I owe her something.

"It's just... you know, like you said. About your life being about what people want for you and not what you want for yourself. And kind of not knowing what it is you want for yourself. I mean... I'm almost forty, you know? People my age are supposed to have their shit together."

"That's what I hear," she says, her tone dry and sardonic. "I don't. Do you? Are you even close?"

"Not really," I answer with a laugh, but I've been thinking about this so much lately that it's not funny. "Like... what does life look like when you spent all your formative years on a stage, on the road, in and out of relationships? I've already done more than people like your ex will do in a lifetime. Like... what else is there to do?"

"There's plenty you could do, Josh. You could mentor-"

"Done it."

"Or write and produce-"

I can't help it, but my eyes bug out. "You haven't followed my career at all, have you?"

"What? No, I haven't. Why? Is that what you do now?"

"Uh.... Yeah." She starts to laugh and I laugh with her. "Sorry, I guess I am a pretentious jerk. I just assume people know what's going on with me because... well, what with the internet, who doesn't, these days?"

"I suppose I've been a little preoccupied. It's a good thing I'm on vacation." She grips my thigh, giving it a good, suggestive squeeze.

"Yeah, a good thing." I'm eyeing her fingers as they climb higher. "Pay attention to someone else for a change."

"So, do you think you're having a midlife crisis or something?"

"I don't know if it's as serious as all that. I'm just... nothing's great. Everything's mediocre. A forty degree day. No one cares about a forty degree day."

"Hmmm," she muses. Her eyes are heavily lidded and I'm slightly concerned about how fast she knocked back her drink. I set mine, still full, on the table. "That's pretty deep, about a forty degree day."

"I stole it from The Wire. I was hoping you wouldn't recognize the quote."

"I didn't. You could have gotten away with being totally deep."

"Until you heard it somewhere and realized I'm a liar."

"You wouldn't be the first liar I've ever known."

Her eyes open wider, and in them I see a swirl of emotion-pain, loneliness, need. I'm not all about fixing people or thinking that an encounter could change a person's life, but at that moment, all I want is to make what I see in her eyes fade away.

"So, on this vacation, where you have this friend..."

I scoot myself over a little bit so I'm right up against her, sniffing the vanilla tones of her shampoo and the earthy, musky combination of her natural scent and a light perfume. She leans into me, scooting closer as I lift my arm and let it settle across her shoulder.

"What about this vacation, where I have this friend?"

"I was hoping you would fill me in on the details. It's your vacation. What do you want to do?"

She tips her head up, rolling her eyes up to meet mine. Her lips bear a faint smirk that grows stronger, the longer we stare at each other. We're both laughing by the time we look away.

"You don't know what you want? Or you're trying to say I already know what you want?"

"Don't you?"

"I think I do. But a man in my position, with a woman who's had more drinks than I can count, really needs to hear the words. I know it's not very sexy or romantic, but I need to be clear about what you want to happen."

"Oh. I guess I didn't think of that."

I grin down at her. "It's also a pretentious jerk thing. I need to hear women say, out loud, that they want me."

She giggles, but it's not a cute giggle. It's a sexy, sultry, deep-in-the-throat chuckle, so deep I feel it in my soul. Okay, I feel it in my balls. She reaches toward my shirt, the red flannel I wear so often that it's paper-thin and baby soft, and picks at a button until it pops. And then another and another until the shirt is splayed open.

"Can this come off?" I shed it in record time, haphazardly folding it and setting it on the table. I return to my original position, in a plain white t-shirt. Her eyes don't leave my chest. I don't have to ask what she's looking at. Women like chest hair and I've got plenty of it. "Can I..."

I nod and close my eyes as her fingers land on my skin. Her touch is light, almost teasing, moving from the opening of my shirt, up my neck to my face. She strokes my cheek with her thumbs. It feels like she's playing in my beard. Not that I mind, but I want to play, too.

"Marissa." Her thumbs stop moving, but only for a second. My eyes open again and lock onto hers. "If you don't want to do anything, that's okay. If you do, that's okay too. But I need to hear the words."

"I..."  She inhales a breath, deep and long, filling her lungs. I take it as her gathering courage. "I want to show you something."

Not quite what I was expecting to hear.

She takes away her fingers and her scent and her warmth and closeness and gets up, moving across the room to a cabinet underneath the TV. She plucks a large, thin book and returns to the couch with a funny smile. She shows me the cover- Dr. Phillips High School Yearbook.

"Oh, man. You're gonna show me what a dork I was back then, aren't you?"

"You, a dork? I was the one in the Nerd Herd." She flips through pages until she gets to the sophomores. She stops at a photo of a goofy kid with squinty eyes, big teeth and big hair.

"See? Dork. How did you ever think I was one of the cool kids back then?"

"I didn't have to think it. You were. Back then, all the girls thought you were cute. All the girls wanted to talk to you, to be on your arm." She flips a few pages forward and stops, then runs her fingers over the photo of Marissa Powell. Brown eyes, awkward smile, big pile of fluffy hair. "This girl never stood a chance."

She flips past a few more photos, smiles at the nostalgia and closes the yearbook. "I bet if I hop on the internet and post that JC Chasez is at my house right now, that a million girls would lose their minds."

"I don't think... I mean, not a million...."

"The point is, girls still think you're cute. All the girls still want to talk to you. To be on your arm. To fuck you." She pauses, for dramatic effect, I am sure. "The difference is that I stand a chance now. And I need to decide- do I leave the past in the past and hold on to my fantasies, or do take that chance?"

She gets up again, grabs her empty glass and heads toward the bar. "Do you want a fresh drink?"

Instead of answering, I get up to follow her to the bar. I step in right behind her, lightly gripping her hips. I hear her... feel her give a tiny gasp as I press into her.  "Actually," I mutter over her shoulder, "I was hoping we could talk some more about taking chances."

The glass tumbles from her hand. Remnants of ice and Jack Daniels and Coke splash across the bar. "Wha... what did you have in mind?"

"I think that's up to you, beautiful," I whisper, tracking the line of her long neck with the tips of my lips. She shudders. I watch her nipples rise through her sweater. That's what I like to see. "It's your vacation. What do you have in mind?"

"Uhm... I..."

My hands slip down the sides of her body to the hem of her skirt. With ease and without resistance, I slide it up so it bunches around her hips. She is warm, silky soft, luminous. I don't waste any time exploring the delicate fabric of her simple black thong, moving two fingers between her thighs and stroking so close to her core that I feel the heat coming off of her body. My other hand finds its way under her sweater and gently kneads one breast and then the other; flicks one taut nipple and then the other.

She writhes against me, her mouth wide open but her lungs barely taking in air, eyes sealed shut. I tip my head to whisper in her ear. "Open your eyes mama. Look at us. Look at you."

Her eyes open, catching the image of us in the mirror of the bar. She seems mesmerized, her gaze on my fingers moving between her thighs, the shadow of my hand under her sweater teasing her nipples. The sight of us, of her, caught in an erotic moment brings a shiver. She braces both hands against the edge of the bar and pushes back against me, openly moaning. And still watching.

"You like this?" I ask her reflection.

She doesn't answer. She tips her head back against my shoulder and moves one hand from the bar to join mine at the juncture of her thighs. They open, welcoming my fingers and hers as she moves me from merely teasing to her to rhythmically pressing and stroking her clit through her panties.

"Uhmmmmm... shit."

My hips join hers in a sultry thrust; my breath against her neck matches the heaving of her chest. She gulps hard, moaning and grunting, directing my fingers in faster and faster revolutions. All signs point to an impending orgasm... until she stops.

And turns around.

Confused, still stuck on high, I search her face for signs that she wants me to stop touching her, stop making her make those noises, stop making her pupils dilate and her heart race. I see no signs of that, only dry, swollen lips and a near drunken gaze.

"Do you want to know what I have in mind for this vacation, where I have a friend?"

"I'm dying to know. And I'm hoping it has something to do with me."

She gives me one of those knowing smiles, the kind that spreads from one corner of her mouth to the other. Then she throws her arms over my shoulders and rises up onto her toes, bringing her mouth to mine. I dive in, enjoying the heady experience of my first real kiss in a very long time. Our tongues engage in friendly battle, each taking and relinquishing control but only for a few moments before switching it up again.

Her hands are busy, first stroking my beard, then my neck before making her way down my arms and ending up at the band of my jeans. Without missing a beat of our kiss, her fingers make light work of the buttons, pulling them open and pushing the denim down, over my hips. I give her a hand, kicking until gravity takes over and then step out of them, leaving them in a heap on the living room floor.

It's her turn to lose some clothing. I work at the side zipper on her skirt, loosening the material until it is open enough to shimmy down her hips, joining my jeans on the floor. She lifts her arms and we have to stop kissing so I can pull her sweater over her head. I toss it; we laugh when it lands on the tree.

"What do you... what do I call you?" She asks me. "I mean... I know you as Josh. But I know people call you JC now."

I shrug, stepping so close that her full breasts, encased in a black lace bra, are deliciously smashed against my chest. "Honey," I mumble against her lips, "you can call me anything you want. Just call me."

"Mmmmmmmph," she moans, swirling her tongue around mine before she pulls back from the kiss. "I think... wait. I know I want that chance with you. I never got it back then. I might never get it again."

"That's all I need to hear-"

"The thing is? I haven't... been with anyone since Graham. Or... before Graham."

I nod, catching her drift. She's only been with one guy her whole life. She's worried about her... performance. I'm not. She's practically vibrating, she needs a release so badly. When the need is that bad... the end result can only be good.

"So you need someone to cleanse you of him. Give you a clean slate. Something like that?"

Her head bobbed slowly, her eyes on mine. Watching, I guess, for me to back down or decide I wanted no part in this. When I don't, I felt her spine straighten, her boldness return, her vulnerable moment fade away.

"You need to know what I want, right?"

"Yes. I mean, I want to know, too. Why go through all the trouble of sex to not do what you set out to do?"

"True.  I guess. So..." Courage and confidence build, evidenced in the expression on her face, in the softening of her gaze. "I really want to fuck you. I mean... not make sweet love to you, but fuck you. I had years of Graham pretending to make love to me while he was with another woman. Years of thinking I was giving myself to someone who..."

She catches herself, swallows hard and shakes her head as if to clear the fog. "I want to fuck you. I just... want to be with someone for no reason other than I want him. And he wants me."

"Sounds do-able," I quip, hoping the mood lightens. It does, and she quietly laughs. Then she turns around again, presenting her back to me.

"Where were we?"

"Right about..." I step in again, resuming the spot I was in a few minutes before, except that now only a few thin strips of clothing separate my heat from hers. My hands smooth across her skin. One comes to rest in a grip around a breast, my thumb eagerly flicking the nipple standing at attention. The other slides down her body, to the slick warmth under the band of her panties. My dick grows harder at the sensation, at knowing that wetness is for me. "Here."

"Yeah. That... feels familiar."

"You want it right here?"

"I only ever fucked my husband in a bed. Maybe a hot tub if I was feeling frisky. He did his mistress on top of his desk, among other places, I'm sure." I catch her eyes in the mirror. Her defiance and determination bring a fire to them. It's a turn on. "I want it right here. Right now."

I move to begin satisfying her wishes, working her body into a frenzied state of passion. I slip one, then two fingers into her and use my thumb to give a firm press to her clit. Then I step forward, pushing her forward so she is caught between my body and the bar and tighten my arms around her. She whimpers, gasping for air. Her hips begin a deliberate pump, riding my fingers, rubbing her ass up and down the length of my dick. I'm a little lightheaded at how good it feels, even through layers of clothing.

I feel her arms move and in a few seconds, she's not wearing panties anymore. Eager to help her achieve complete nudity, I work the hooks at the back of her bra until it pops loose. She lets the straps slide down her arms and the bra lands on the floor near everything else. I take advantage of the bare breast in my hand and gently squeeze. The sultry smile on her lips tells me she likes it.

"Take them off," she pants, talking to my reflection. "I want to feel you against me. All of you."

I oblige, pulling my hands away from her, only for as long as it takes to pull my t-shirt over my head and roll my boxer briefs down my hips. Then I satisfy her need to feel me, all of me, against her. My dick up against her ass, my chest at her back, our thighs molded together, my lips crossing the expanse of her shoulder, up her neck, around her earlobe.

She turns her head so that our lips meet and we kiss, then she reaches between her thighs and grips me, guiding me to her. She tips forward, her eyes on mine in the mirror. "Fuck me," she orders, pressing into me.

"Uh... do we need..."

"Birth control isn't a problem. I can't have any more children. And I got tested after I found out Graham was cheating on me. I haven't been with anyone since."

I sigh a breath of relief as I tilt my hips and push into her. She is...... so warm and so tight, I almost come in the first few seconds. I inhale a deep breath and move my hands to grip her hips, holding her tight up against me as I pull back, then thrust again, repeating over and over until I am buried in her.

She is trembling, gripping the bar counter, her head down.  "You okay?" I ask, my lips on her back. "Am I hurting you?"

"Yes. I mean... no. I mean..." Her giggle sounds manic. "You're hurting me so good right now. Don't stop."

Happily, I don't, setting a thrust-thrust-thrust rhythm that delivers the sounds of skin smacking against skin and loud, tortured moans. Marissa grabs one of my hands and pulls, moving it between her thighs to her engorged clit. As soon as the pad of my thumb makes its tentative stroke, she cries out, her hips jerking wildly and her back arching against me.

"Fuck! Yes! Don't! Stop! Coming!"

I nip at her earlobe, grunting not-so-sweet-nothings into her ear as I pound her and rub her clit for everything I'm worth. Which... is a lot. I'm at the edge of orgasm, but I feel like a punk if I come first, so I'm putting everything into make sure she blows her top.

"Oh my......fuck........" She stiffens, and I'm not sure she's breathing. Then her entire body breaks into spastic, violent jerks and a loud, gut level scream peals from her body. Her pussy feels like a vise, squeezing me, convulsing from the inside out.

Her legs give out and I just barely catch her, halfway to the floor. We land on top of the pile of clothing we'd shed minutes earlier. I'd thought she was close to passing out, but she scrambles to face me and, with her palms against my shoulders, pushes me to the floor and straddles me. In seconds, I'm deep inside of her again and she's riding me like a prize winning horse at the Kentucky Derby.

My view is the best I've seen in a long time- and I've been privy to a lot of amazing views. Her hair is a mass of sexy, wild waves and curls. Her skin is tinged with the pink of arousal. The tips of her dark nipples taunt me as her breasts ride the waves of her body moving against mine. I sit up a little so I can take them into my mouth, one after the other. The rasp of my tongue on her nipple makes her squeal and clench around me.

"I'm...fuck, I'm gonna come again."   She pants to me, her eyes at half-mast and smoky. "I want you to come. I want to make you come."

"Don't worry about that. I'm gonna get mine. I want to come with you this time."

"Yes! Come with me!"

Without warning, I wrap an arm around her waist and pull her up against me so I don't lose her when I flip her over and land on top. Her thighs fall open to accommodate me; her hips hunch to meet my thrusts.  We are both sweaty, moaning in chorus as we move together.

"How do you feel..." Pant, pant, pant. "About being fucked on the living floor in front of your Christmas tree?"

She grins, then laughs, then grabs my face and brings it to hers so she can bite my lips and suck my tongue. "I think I feel pretty amazing about that."

I shift to move my weight to one arm so I can move a hand between us and stroke her clit between thrusts. She yelps, her nails digging into my shoulders. "You're gonna come aren't you?"

"Mmhmmmmmm..."

"You're gonna come with another man's dick in your pussy, aren't you?"

"Yeeeessss..."

"That's it, mama. Tell me what you need."

"Harder. Fuck me harder."

My speed doesn't change but I move myself to a better position to pound against her, relentless and forceful. I watch her face, her mouth falling open, her eyes rolling back. She arches off the floor and trembles as if tiny earthquakes are erupting all over her body.

"Fuck! YesyesyesyesyesYES! Come with me!"

Finally, I let myself go and it feels like a dam bursting. Everything I'd been holding back-not just tonight, but pent up emotion I'd been holding onto for a while-seemed to flow out of me. I come hard, feeling blazing hot and then blanking out for second, catching myself before I pass out on top of Marissa.

She is beneath me, her face hidden by her hands, her body heaving with the deep breaths she's trying to take. She sniffles and I stiffen.

"You okay? Hey. Are you crying?" I pull one of her hands away from her face. She is lobster red and her eyes are glossy. But the smile she is wearing... it's bright as sunshine.

"It's a good cry," is all she says, swiping tears from her cheeks. I help, catching a few at her hairline.

"What's a good cry?"

"You never made a girl come so hard she cried before?"

I stare at her, watching her, not sure if she's serious or playing with me. Deciding she's actually for real, I answer. "I guess you're my first." 

"Probably been a long time since you had a first anything."

"Yeah. You're right about that." I lean down to kiss her, brushing my lips against hers. She captures my bottom lip between her teeth. "Thanks for bringing me on your vacation."

 

"Horatio, it's Marissa. I'm not coming in today." I steal a quick glance over my shoulder while I whisper into the phone. Josh is still out cold next to me, the sheets on his side of the bed wrapped around his naked torso. His chest is on full display, rising and falling in the deep rhythm of sleep. His eyes are closed, long lashes against resting against pale skin, in contrast to the dark hairs covering his chin and cheeks. I could watch him sleep all day.

"You're not coming in? Are you feeling okay?" H is my work bestie. He sits in the office next to me and aside from Tim, has been my steady confidante since my split with my husband. "I mean... you never call out. Are you sick?"

"Yeah. I mean no. I'm fine. I just... ran into an old friend last night. We uhm... got to... talking and..."

Josh stirs and one eye cracks open. Liar, he mouths, then rolls over. I work hard to suppress a giggle. "Anyway, we were up pretty late. I'm gonna take a vacation day, since I had to work yesterday. See you Monday."

I end the call and slide my phone onto the nightstand, then scooch back under the covers and up against the warm body in my bed.

"Is there any food on this vacation?" His voice is muffled and deliciously rough since it's early.

I have visions of the night before-watching him touch me in places only my ex had ever touched; laying on the living room floor, in front of the Christmas tree my kids decorated, my limbs limp and my body pulsing, feeling... amazing. And free... from Graham, from Jenna, from the feeling that I hadn't done enough to save my marriage. That I wasn't enough for Graham.

The truth is... he wasn't enough for me. Because once I got a taste of sex...good sex, make you come so hard you cry, make you scream so loud you scare yourself sex, I couldn't get enough. I got another round out of Josh before he declared he was too old to fuck on the floor and dragged me to bed.

Where he licked and sucked and tasted me in places I could never get my ex to try.

I smile against him and plant kisses across his back. He had earned breakfast, lunch and dinner. "I could be convinced to make you some breakfast." 

He rolls over and drops a kiss on my forehead. "I feel like you lured me out of the bar with the promise of food but then I got here and you made me have sex with you..."

That makes me sit up. "Made you?"

"Multiple times, even..."

"Bullshit, you pretentious jerk."

He sweeps me into his arms and lands his lips on mine. He is warm, his lips soft but firm, the scent and the taste of him so alluring.  I already want him and it's not even 7am.

"Do you uhm... do you have to go soon? Or... ever?"

He laughs. "Ever, yes. Soon..." He gazes down at me, those blue eyes piercing me all the way through. "Not soon. We're on vacation. I'm yours, for the time being."

"Good. Because Graham never fucked me in the kitchen while I made him breakfast."

"Oh yeah?" A slow grin spreads across his face. He sits up and swings his legs off the side of the bed, then pulls me up to join him. I feel him, already awake as he walks me backward toward the kitchen. "The pretentious asshole in me likes that challenge."