Secret Desire (6 page)

Dustin
, she half moaned and half cursed him.

She couldn’t escape the image of him without a shirt. This wasn’t lasting relief. If anything masturbation was an hors d'oeuvre, opening and whetting her appetite.

Tears stung her eyes, from frustration and desire, braided and coiled into a force that refused to expire. She wished for the possibility of commanding Dustin’s attention, instead of secretly hiding in the dark.

She imagined sliding walls where she created a soundproof version of a sex chamber. One where she was in charge. She was his succubus, haunting his sleep. The image of him drifted back and forth. She moved him aside trying to envision the details. The texture of wine-colored satin sheets, smooth and soft. She inhaled and chose a woody scent for his body. Claire heard a far-off, deep laugh that lodged in her chest. She turned up the volume of a Middle Eastern melody within her fantasy.

This was a battle, trying to stop the trembling between her thighs. Claire reached inside her panties and rubbed the slick hood of her already engorged clit. She wanted relief, but this was torture. She slammed the door to her memory and tried to double-lock the storehouse of fantasies.

Dustin slipped in, nevertheless. Beckoned her to come.

She rubbed herself, trying to find relief until beads of perspiration erupted again and she gave in to the waves of pleasure. She hung over the chair, limp, having climaxed twice, but still greedy, wanting the real thing.

Claire wished it was possible to let go of the past. Fran said it. No way to change history. She sighed. Did her own flawed personality prompt her to search for a man who ultimately took control into his own two hands? Dustin had flat-out failed to do that way back when. There was nothing that prompted her to believe anything had changed.

The only way she’d find a satisfying ending to her story would be to start again. A new story. The writing of a story was no different than life, a balancing act in trying to create or be a woman who didn’t settle for just anybody but was pursued by Mr. Right-Who-Took-What-He-Wanted.

She opened her notebook. She jotted down a couple of ideas for the next story. Maybe
this
act would keep her imagination at bay. Somewhere, her critic whispered something about getting a cat to compliment her spinster outlook. After all, here she was hiding out alone.

She stopped writing.
Alone
. The word dropped like boulder.

Hiding
. Another equally weighted word that she wanted to hurl and hear crash.

She began to shake. Uncontrollably. Something torrid crept up along her spine, scorching her neck, and warming her face. Anger fueled by her recent frustration. Each heartbeat squeezed out and released more and more foul emotions that had festered too long. She dug her feet into the floor, fighting for control.

Being alone was her choice. She’d lived with her own version of the truth for so long, it was easy to believe there was no other way.

She hated to admit, but Fran was partly correct. She couldn’t expect to be able to snap her fingers and have Prince Charming show up if she continued to hide away. And she couldn’t argue with the truth about how she dealt with her writing. Romance was a top selling category in the world of fiction. She wasn’t an author of depravity. Goodness, it was only sex.
Nothing to be ashamed of, Claire Robertson.
The critic was red faced and out of breath.

Analysis paralysis. She was making this too difficult. Overthinking, as usual. Would she ever have the courage to share these stories?

This wasn’t an ascent up Mount Everest.

She wavered in her wish for feedback. She was accustomed to people reading her writing, but the thought of sharing these stories knotted her insides.

“I write erotica.” She said the words as if trying on a new hat. Even her own eyebrows shot up with the announcement.

“¡
Ay, caramba
!”

She stretched her arms overhead. What would her professors at Berkeley think of Claire Robertson as an undercover writer of erotica? Might they not enjoy her stories too?

She rolled her eyes and yawned. It was past midnight in Mill Spring, barely nine back in Seattle. She was spent from traveling and the stress of coming home. She closed her laptop and sat for a moment cradling her head in her hands. Tears stung her eyes thinking about all the Thanksgiving dinners and Christmas mornings that had come and gone.

Her parents had been simple, quiet people. They never asked much of those around them except to try to maintain an atmosphere of tranquility.

Claire rubbed her eyes and pushed the chair away from the table. She traipsed upstairs and dropped into her bed, giving in to exhaustion. The pillows still smelled of jasmine, reminding her of the fragrance she’d worn as a teenager.

She started to drift off to sleep. Groggy, she opened her eyes, suddenly remembering where Dustin had gone off to school. He’d gone to MIT to study something to do with computer engineering. She settled back into the pillows and uncovered her leg, wiggling her toes in the cool nighttime breeze coming through the open window.

Without warning, a wave of sadness rushed over her. She swallowed a sob, shuddering, but it was no use. Tears welled and spilled, scalding her face, a river of sadness running in torrents that she’d held back for days. Sobs broke free of her chest, and she cried and cried into her pillow.

Never would she have her parents or a home here to come back to, and never would she be able to pick up the phone and hear her father call out to her mom that Claire was on the line. Whenever she had called home, her mom and dad would pick up separate, cordless phones and they all conversed, laughed, and reminisced together. She wasn’t ready to let go, never again to hear her father’s funny comments about something she’d written. It wasn’t possible this was the end.

No longer did she fight the hollow feelings of loss and regret. The emotions poured over her. The memory of a deep laugh and bright green eyes came out of nowhere, adding to the loneliness. Dustin, another memory haunting her. All of a sudden the past swam around her and was gone. Pressure banding her chest tightened and broke under a new round of tears.

Chapter Four

Claire woke to the sound of a dog barking. It took her a moment in the darkness of her old room to decide if the dog was real or a dream. Bleary eyed she searched for a clock. She groped for her cell phone along the top of the nightstand. She squinted at the screen. Seven-fifteen in the morning, still early back in Seattle. Wednesday morning and she needed to get that copy to Mike.

She pushed off the covers. Out of habit, she tiptoed down the hall toward the bathroom. She turned on the water in the sink then gazed at her red-rimmed eyes in the mirror. She rubbed the swollen skin, puffy from crying, and splashed cold water over her face. After brushing her teeth, she returned to her room.

Jeez, it was early, but she still had to get her story emailed. Claire pulled on the dress she’d worn on the plane and went downstairs. The only sound came from tick of the mantle clock. The clock hadn’t chimed the hour or half-hour for years.

What would an estate salesperson get for the things in the house? Probably no more than pennies for worn-out possessions that should be donated. There was nothing modern, nothing that made life more convenient than necessary. Only things with sentimental value, the type without a price tag, and more than likely Fran would want to throw it all away.

Claire pushed open the front door, patting her messenger bag for her jump drive. The fog still hung close to the ground across the fields. Claire tossed her bag onto the passenger seat. The lights were on next door. Did they stay on all night or was Dustin up and about? He’d always been an early riser. Hadn’t they found time alone on many a morning?
Stop
, she told herself and put the car into drive and floored the gas pedal.

Her staff writing piece was due at
Ethos
by five in the morning, Seattle time. Her parents’ house sat out in the country, surrounded by hay, corn, and alfalfa. Same crops made up Dustin’s parents’ land. Out here, miles from town, her parents’ refusal to be part of the Wi-Fi world made sense. Their last attempt to join modern society was to convert an acre of land into growing organics and medicinal herbs. The ultimate conservatives had gone a little liberal considering the community farms springing up all over the country. She didn’t want to see the plots go to weed. Her mother’s gardens stood in neat rows, brightly colored flowers edged the stepping stone walkway. So carefully planted and tended. She pressed her lips with no solution in sight.

She headed off toward Highway 9, a two-lane street that fed into downtown Mill Spring. For all its small-town appearance, Starbucks and an all-night copy center had found their way into existence along with a couple of strip malls, a movieplex, and a smattering of upscale restaurants.

She had the copier’s address keyed into her GPS and pulled into the parking lot within fifteen minutes of leaving home.

Claire walked up to the only clerk. “Good morning, I’d like to use the Internet.”

“The kiosk is self-serve.” The young man pointed at a corner over his shoulder. “You just need a credit card.”

“Right.” The place was empty.

He slipped his pen behind his ear and leaned over the desk. “So, are you new in town?”

“No.” She pushed her card into the slot, pressed her lips together, and inhaled.

He followed her into the kiosk area. “I don’t remember seeing you before.”

Either he was lonely, bored, or trying to hit on her.

“Sorry, I’m trying to work right now.” She glanced at him and then back to the computer screen.

“Me too.” He was apparently irritated at her disinterest.

She sighed and tried to concentrate by ignoring his continual movement in the kiosk. Not easy as he spoke loudly to himself and slammed trash bins in and out from under each desk.

Claire retrieved the story from her USB storage device. So far, she’d published a piece each week as a salaried staff writer. The pay was next to nothing, her job only a stepping stone position. Easy to let go.

The icon stopped scrolling and she opened her email account. She wrote a short email.

Mike,

Here’s the piece about Pauline Rivers, the independent mayoral candidate, growing up within the culture of Seattle. I used the 2010 census figures on race, ethnicity, and age along with the ideas about gentrification of Seattle, outlining displacement of minorities. The graphics department has photographs to add concerning the less affluent areas Rivers addresses in her platform, such as King County and Pierce County. Let me know if you want to include the section about the suburbs from the north and east, featuring more affluent areas (where Rivers grew up) that actually hold the most promise for diversity. I’ll know more about my timeline here when I meet with the attorney and find out what needs to be done.

Take care,

Claire.

She signed off and mumbled a thanks over her shoulder to the still grumbling clerk before heading out the door.

The town was quaint and colorful compared with Columbus. Few cars were on the road. The business district was about a mile to the north and, more than likely, what little traffic the area had would be located over there.

Claire decided to hit the Starbucks for some real coffee before going home and tackling the first chore of cleaning out the fridge, pantry, and kitchen cabinets. She took a detour through town. The diner where she and Fran had hung out as kids was still in business. The pet store where she’d worked was gone, as was the community swimming pool. The high school was twice the size it had been when she’d graduated and was still undergoing renovations.

She eased back onto Highway 9 and drove toward the house with her windows down. Several farms had sold out to planned communities. She decided to take Hollenbrook, an old road with sections of dirt and gravel that looped around and came out just a few blocks from home. A mile of Hollenbrook had been turned into a two-lane street that intersected the new suburban neighborhoods. She did a double take at one planned community that boasted a golf course and a gated entrance. She was a tourist in her hometown. What would she find if she left again and didn’t return for another couple of years?

She parked the car in front of the garage. She gasped as the sunny sky was replaced by the shadow of a man’s silhouette.

“Claire?”

She immediately recognized his voice. A deeper and richer version than when she’d heard it last. She froze, her mind went blank, and any sensible speech went right out the window.

Claire grabbed her coffee cup, almost sloshing the brew, and took a sip, wishing she could come up with an excuse to put the car in reverse and back away. It was no use.

Dustin opened her car door and held out his hand. She glared at his palm. Swallowing back her refusal to let him help her, Claire placed her hand within his grasp. His fingers were warm and strong and sent a ripple of pleasure through her. He pulled and she rose to stand next to him.

Her heart sprinted.
Stop staring
, the critic whispered.
For goodness sakes, say something.

Nothing original sprang to mind.

“Dustin. How nice to see you again.”
Great,
her critic groaned.
What an amazing command of the English language.

She gazed up into emerald eyes that still mesmerized her. Nothing had changed there.

He stepped closer. “I’m so very sorry about your parents. We all were devastated by the news.”

She glanced down. His words stabbed her sadness. She was ready to crumble.
No. No. No.
The critic hollered vehemently.
Not in front of him.
She bit the corner of her lip until she gathered enough sense to steady her emotions.