Final Destination III (12 page)

What do you write about a twenty-nine-year-old girl who died?

That she was beautiful? And brainy? And had the voice of a goddess?

That she loved analyzing a Picasso as much as a penis…

That she loved reading art books as much as comic books.

She loved superheroes. She believed they could save the world.

I asked her once if she loved me more than Superman.

She zipped down my fly and sucked my dick until I was flying. “You, Ryan Madewell, are my Superman.”

Except I couldn’t save her.

What do you write…?

I don’t need an outline. I need only to close my eyes. And go back in time.

A tear spills onto my keyboard as I type my first line…

***

I could have asked the tall willowy blonde with the mile-high legs and the Kate Moss face to show me a painting, but instead I chose the bookwormy, bespectacled brunette. She looked like the type who knew where a secret treasure would be and would just get down to business. The blonde, who was already eying me flirtatiously, reminded me of all the girls I grew up with and dated. Including Meredith, my soon-to-be fiancée. Both were wearing the basic museum uniform—gray pleated skirt and navy blazer that had their museum employee tag clipped to the lapel. Except while the blonde’s skirt fell to the middle of her toned thighs, the brunette’s fell below her knees, leaving a lot to the imagination.

“Excuse me, can you possibly show me what, in your opinion, is one of the museum’s hidden treasures?” I asked her.

“What for?” she asked suspiciously

Her raspy voice was heavy-duty New York. Not the cultured kind associated with the tawny Fifth Avenue neighborhood I grew up in but rather BBQ. Someone who lived in Brooklyn, Bronx, or Queens. And called the Big Apple “Newyawk.”

“I’m doing an article on the city’s secret art treasures,” I said.

“Oh, so you’re a reporter.” The tone of her voice was snide. In fact, borderline belittling.

“I like to think of myself of a writer. One day, I’m going to write a novel.”

“Really? And what do you write now?

“Articles for
Arts & Smarts.

She rolled her eyes. “That’s such a fucking piece of crap magazine. Intended for tourists. And wannabes in the know-it-all-art crowd.”

I nodded, hiding my hurt. “Hey, it’s a living.”

“You don’t look like you need to make a living.”

I was taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“You’re rich.”

“How can you tell?”

“You’re wearing premium denim jeans and expensive black leather loafers with no socks.” She paused. “And because I’m not.”

I had to give it her that she was observant. Mental note to self: I need to tone it down.

“So, Allee, what can you show me?”

“How do you know my name?”

“It’s on your employee badge.”

“Right,” she said, with a flash of a smirk.

Score one for me.
I followed her as she led me to the elevator. She moved with a dancer’s body, and I couldn’t help wondering what she looked like underneath that oppressive uniform. There was something about her.

Thick silence accompanied the slow elevator ride to the museum’s third floor. Alone, we stood side by side facing front. Twice, I stole a look at her. Despite the oversized, tortoise shell spectacles, she was actually rather pretty. Maybe even beautiful in an unconventional way. She had a strong dimpled chin, upturned nose, and cheekbones the size of golden delicious apples. And there was that slender long neck that gave her height and grace. Her skin was milky white and made a stunning contrast to her lustrous ebony hair that was tied back in a messy bun. I had a burning urge to pull down her hair to see how long it was.

Having gone to cotillion (Man, did I hate it!) and later to way too many debutante balls, I was used to holding doors for women and letting them exit first. When the elevator hit the third floor and the doors slid open, she shot out like a bullet. I had to sprint to keep up with her.

“Follow me,” she said. She walked two steps at a time and while I was used to speed, being a runner, it was challenging to keep up with her. Maybe because I was distracted by her toned calves and thin elegant ankles that peeked out from below her mid-calf skirt. I also kept thinking about what her ass looked like every time it shot out between the vent of her blazer.

She led me to a painting. I studied it. At first, I couldn’t make it out. And then I gaped, realizing it was an abstract of a man and woman fucking face to face.

“What do you think makes this painting so great?” she challenged me.

I studied it further. “Their bodies are one.”

She nodded in approval. “What else?”

My eyes stayed fixed on the painting. “It’s in fifty shades of gray.”

“Excellent observation. And what’s the artist telling you about sex?”

Shit! In the back of my mind, I thought I was supposed to be the one asking the questions. But instead, I was the one pondering them. “That sex is the union of two souls,” I stammered.

She smiled for the first time, and I was taken by her dimpled upturned lips that wore no lipstick. Even without makeup, there was something about her.

“Excellent. Tell your readers that if they want to get laid they should visit this painting. It’s a little known Picasso.”

I pulled out a notebook and pen from my satchel. There was definitely a story here.

As I scribbled down my thoughts, she yanked my pen away. “You don’t need that. When you write your article, write it from your heart.”

She glanced down at her watch, an inexpensive cloth band one. “Sorry, time’s up. It’s my break.”

“Let me take you for coffee,” I insisted.

“Let me take you. I get a 10% employee discount.”

***

The museum café was busy, but we managed to find a table for two.

We had something in common. We both liked our coffee with a lot of cream, no sugar. Despite my protest, she still insisted on paying for the coffees, but I bought a dessert. One to share. A crème brûlée. My favorite. I was ravenous as I had had not eaten lunch.

“So, Golden Boy, what’s your name?” she asked after ingesting a mouthful of the delicious dessert.

“Ryan.” I was focused on her lush lips. Her tongue languidly rolled around her upper lip, savoring every last bit of the creamy custard.

“Nice, now we’re both on a first name basis.” Even though she was still wearing her spectacles, her eyes, the color of espresso beans, burned right through me. Under the table, I could feel my dick tensing. I had the burning urge to fuck her. Hard.

“How long have you worked here?” I asked, fumbling for small talk to make a conversation. She wasn’t exactly what I’d call easy to talk to.

“Almost a year.” She glanced again at her watch. “I’d better go because I wanna keep my job.”

She pushed her chair away from the table and stood up. “Here’s your pen back.”

I took it from her and twirled it between my fingers. “Are you going to watch the Marathon tomorrow?”

“I haven’t given it much thought. Are you?”

“I’m running in it. My first time.”

“Good luck, Ryan.” She reached into her purse. “And here’s a couple of bucks for my share of the dessert. No backsies.”

I was stunned when she slapped the money on the table. What was with this girl?

Before I could say a word, she tore off. Maybe, next week I’d visit the museum again. There were lots of beautiful and interesting works of art to look at, and she was one of them.

***

Though it was November, the weather was unusually warm, and I feared that this was not going to help me through my first Marathon race. Stretching my calves, I stood gathered with thousands of runners of all ages who had come from all parts of the world to run this famed race. I was number 121252. I was wearing an official Marathon t-shirt and blue runner shorts that complemented my worn-in Nike athletic shoes. I was ready. I had trained all year. And had loaded up on carbs both at dinner last night and breakfast this morning.

The minute the race started, adrenaline shot through my veins. A team of my co-workers cheered me on. Crossing the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, which was closed for the event, I took in the magnificent view of the city and felt exhilarated. Though I wanted to run as fast I could, I knew I had to pace myself. Covering all five boroughs of Manhattan, the distance spanned a little over twenty-six miles. I had to be careful not to burn myself out early on.

I was doing well, running at a solid even pace. My goal was to complete the race in less than six hours. While the various and ethnically diverse neighborhoods I ran through were somewhat of a blur, the sound of so many spectators cheering me and all the other runners on was motivating. As the temperature rose, I was grateful to all those who handed me a cup of water or Gatorade along the way. New Yorkers could really be there for you when they wanted to be.

About half-way through the race, I began to slow down. My legs were lead; I was sweating profusely, and my breathing grew haggard. I was questioning if I would be able to finish but I knew, by the worn-out looks of so many around me, I was not alone. My father had drilled in me the value of not quitting. Once an all-star quarterback at Harvard (MVP ’72), he never quit, and I wasn’t allowed to either.

But let me tell you, as I crossed the Queensboro Bridge heading back into Manhattan, I wanted to throw in the towel. The climb up the bridge was agonizing, so far the most difficult challenge of the race. My thighs were burning and so were my lungs. Sweat was pouring from every crevice of my being. I didn’t think I could go on. While there were only ten or so miles left, these miles felt more of a challenge than more than the sixteen I had already run. No matter how much I had trained for this race, it wasn’t enough. “Hang in there, Madewell,” I said to myself, my breathing now short constant pants.

“How ya’ doin’, 121252?” came a voice from behind me a little after I exited the bridge.

There was no mistaking that sexy, raspy voice. I stole a glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, it was Allee, her dark hair gathered into a long ponytail and a wicked grin spread across her face.

She ran up behind me and threw a cup of ice cold water over my head. It felt so good. Rubbing the water out of my eyes, I found her right beside me. I couldn’t get my eyes off her body. She was wearing a tight Metropolitan Museum of Art graphic T-shirt that exposed her pert breasts and nipples, even under her sports bra, and black running shorts that revealed her toned mile-high legs. I’d imagined she had great legs but nothing like these gams. Man, she was hot.

“I thought I’d go for a little jog,” she said. “Hope you don’t mind if I join you.”

Mind? Are you kidding? She was just what I needed to get through the last leg of the race. For the next ten miles, she kept pace with me. I shot her little looks that didn’t go unnoticed. She wasn’t wearing her glasses, and I was awed by her profile that was only made more electrifying by her bouncing ponytail.

As we passed through Harlem onto Fifth Avenue, she sprinted ahead of me. “Betchya can’t keep up with me, Golden Boy,” she said with a turn of her head.

“Betchya I can,” I yelled back at her. What a tease! Calling upon every muscle in my body, I charged ahead. I don’t know if it was the competitive value
(“Son, I only associate with winners.”) that my father had instilled in me, or that I wanted to catch her and wrap my arms around her, but nothing could stop me.

Damn, she was fast. Then again, she hadn’t run twenty-four grueling miles across the city. On the other hand, I enjoyed watching her run. She ran with the grace of a gazelle, her long muscular legs kicking up their heels to propel her forward. From time to time, she glanced back at me, firing me a mischievous smile. A smile I wanted to wipe off her face with my lips.

Just as we edged into Central Park at Columbus Circle, I caught up to her. I clasped her hand tightly so that she couldn’t get away. And so that she would pull me over the finish line with her. As thousands of spectators cheered us on, we crossed the famed finish line together, a bundle of hot sweaty human flesh. I clocked in at just under six hours. I did it! Wasted, I sunk to my knees, wrapping my arms around her long legs. She sunk down with me wrapping her arms around me, her hard nipples brushing against my soaking wet t-shirt. Beads of sweat clung to her like fairy dust, making her ethereal. Other worldly. I could not stop panting. She met my gaze with her espresso bean eyes and I broke down, heaving from the pain and the emotion of it all. Here I was in the arms of this gorgeous girl I hardly knew but wanting her like a child wants a forbidden candy. In the background, a Lady Gaga song blasted.
“I’m on the edge of glory.  And
I’m hanging on a moment with you…”
She gently wiped sweat off my forehead with her long fingers and softly said, “Congratulations, 121252.

A Marathon volunteer passed by us, carrying a box full of bottled water. I grabbed two bottles, one for her and one for me. We gulped the contents down greedily. As parched as I was, what I most thirsted for was her. Her hot sweaty body, her long legs, her lush lips. I drank it all in and could practically taste her.

Slowly, I rose to my feet, lifting her with me. “I need to get to my health club and take a cold shower and get a massage,” I said.

“Save your money,” she said. “I give an excellent massage.”

My skin prickled.

“And besides, I owe you for winning the challenge. Well, at least, keeping up with it.”

***

“So, you have a driver,” she said with that maddening roll of her eyes as we stood on Fifth Avenue.

“Yeah,” I said on the verge of embarrassment as my black, tinted window Escalade pulled up to us. “You were right. I’m rich.”

“I underestimated you,” she smirked. “You must be a very prolific writer.”

“I’m just lucky.” Indeed, I was.

My buff driver, Marcus, a former Marine, opened the passenger door and let us both in. “After you,” I said. A little hesitant, she slid into the leather backseat gracefully with me following her. Taking a seat, she deliberately stayed her distance though I longed to cradle her in my arms.