Authors: Nelle L'Amour
Undying Love
Table of Contents
Undying Love
Nelle L’Amour
Undying Love
Copyright © 2013 by Nelle L’Amour. All rights reserved.
First Kindle Edition: April 2013
Cover and Formatting:
Streetlight Graphics
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedicated to my dear readers who make the long, hard journey so worth it
“True love doesn’t have a happy ending because true love never ends.”
—Barbara Johnson
ONE
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 Charlotte, my soon-to-be ex-girlfriend. Both were wearing the basic tour guide uniform—a gray pleated skirt and navy blazer with their Metropolitan Museum of Art employee badge 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 something that is, in your opinion, 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 tony Fifth Avenue neighborhood I grew up in, but rather BBQ. Someone who lived in Brooklyn, Bronx, or Queens and called the Big Apple “New Yawk.”
“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 at me. “That’s such a piece of crap magazine. Intended for tourists and wannabes in the art world.”
Her cutting words stung me, but I hid my hurt feelings. “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 pressed, premium denim jeans, a three-thousand-dollar designer motorcycle jacket, and expensive, black leather loafers with no socks.” She paused. “And because I’m not.”
I had to give it to 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 quickly, with a blend of authority and grace. I couldn’t help wondering what she looked like underneath that oppressive uniform. There was something about her.
Thick silence accompanied the elevator ride to the museum’s third floor. Alone, we stood side by side, facing front. Twice, I stole a glance 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 elegance. Her skin was milky white and made a stunning contrast to her lustrous, ebony hair that was gathered in a messy bun. I had the crazy urge to pull down her hair to see how long it was.
Having gone to cotillion (Man, did I hate it!) and way too many debutante balls, I was accustomed to holding doors open for women and letting them exit first. When the elevator hit the third floor and the doors slid open, my formal etiquette education went up in smoke. She shot out like a bullet, leaving me helplessly behind. I had to sprint to keep up with her.
“Follow me,” she said. She walked briskly, with long strides, 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 longish 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. 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. “It’s in fifty shades of gray.”
She scowled. “What else?”
My eyes stayed fixed on the painting. “Their bodies are one.”
She nodded. “Okay… and what’s the artist communicating about sex?”
Hold on.
Wasn’t I was supposed to be the one asking the questions? Instead, I was pondering them.
She tapped her foot and folded her arms across her chest. “I’m waiting for an answer.”
My eyes focused on her contoured chest. There was definitely a nice set of tits under her blazer.
She harrumphed. “You know, Golden Boy, I don’t have all day.”
I studied the painting again. “That sex is the union of two souls,” I stammered.
She smiled for the first time. I was taken in by her upturned, ruby lips, which wore no lipstick, and the little dimples that bracketed them. 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 started to scribble down my thoughts, she yanked my pen away. “You don’t need notes. 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. “To thank you.”
“Let me take you. I get a ten percent 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 brûlé. My favorite. I was ravenous as I hadn’t eaten lunch.
“So, Golden Boy, what’s your name?” she asked after sipping her coffee.
“Ryan.”
“Nice. Now we’re both on a first name basis.” Though she was still wearing her glasses, her eyes, the color of espresso beans, burnt right through me.
“Why did you agree to have coffee with me?”
“I felt sorry for you.”
“So if you think I’m such a loser, why don’t you just leave?” I made an “L” with my thumb and index finger on the word “loser.”
She flashed that dimpled smile. “Because I like the way you hold your coffee cup.”
Pinky out. Fifth Grade. Miss Primrose’s Etiquette Class.
I took it as a compliment, especially coming from her, and thanked her.
We dug into the dessert. “So, 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. Or maybe it was just the unnerving effect she was having on me.
“Almost a year. I was an intern first.”
Her tongue languidly rolled around her upper lip, savoring every last bit of the creamy custard. Beneath the table, my cock tensed.
She glanced at her watch. “I need to go because I wanna keep my job.”
She pushed back her chair and stood up. “Here’s your pen.”
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.
TWO
T
hough it was November, the weather was unusually warm. This was definitely not going to help me through my first New York City Marathon. Stretching my calves, I stood gathered with thousands of runners of all ages who had come from all over the world to run this famed race. I was number 1212. Along with the identification bib, 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 co-workers, led by my best bud and colleague, Duffy McDermitt, 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 five hours. While the various ethnically diverse neighborhoods I ran through were 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.
