“Can we take it slow, Ethan Blackstone?”
“I’m taking that as a yes. And of course we can.” I heard the soft brush of an exhale again. A pause as if he was gathering his courage. “Brynne?”
“Yes?”
“I am smiling so wide right now.”
“I am too, Ethan.”
7
The club scene in London is pretty damn awesome. We didn’t do it often but a good club crawl was just what I needed. My poor psyche was on maximum overload in a conflict of emotions, fears, and guilt. I needed to dance and drink and laugh but most of all I needed to forget about all the shit. Life was too short to dwell on the dark parts, or at least that’s what my therapist said. I had an appointment with Dr. Roswell tomorrow at four o’clock and a dinner date with Ethan after. Our first step in the take-it-slow agreement we’d made on the phone. He’d told me he wanted to lay the cards out on the table and I have to admit I liked that. The truth works best for me. I really don’t have anything to hide; it was more being careful about what I wanted to share. And I didn’t know how much I could share with Ethan either. There was no guide map to help me. I had to ride the wave and hope I didn’t crash into the reef and drown.
“Try this. It’s magnificent.” Benny handed me a tall orangey-red drink in a hurricane glass. “They’re calling it an Olympic Flame.”
I took a sip. “Nice.” We both watched Gaby banging it out on the dance floor with some guy who would definitely not get lucky tonight. We’d hit three clubs so far and my feet were starting to put up a protest. My dark purple boots looked great with my one shouldered floral dress, but three clubs in and I was ready for some fluffy socks. “My cowboy boot fetish is coming back to haunt me I think.” I smirked at Benny and lifted a boot.
“You own like ten pairs of them.” He shrugged. “I think they look hot. You know,” Ben said thoughtfully, “nude in boots would make some delicious portraits.” He nodded quickly. “Your body and your boots. Am I right? I want to do it. I can light it very dark and cast the boots in color. You have so many different shades—yellow, pink, green, blue, red. They’ll look brilliant. Just art, nothing overt.” He looked at me. “Will you do it, Bree?”
“Well…sure I will. If you think it’ll make good pictures then of course I’ll sign a release for my boots.” I stuck my tongue out at him. “My mother will have a coronary.” I waited for Ben’s sarcastic comment.
“Your mum needs a good rogering.” Ben did not let me down.
I burst out in laughter at the absurd image of Clarice Huntington Bennett Exley ever being rogered at any time in her life.
“Hell, nobody ever said you had to have an orgasm to get pregnant, and I’m pretty sure my mom only had sex the one time with my dad.”
“I think you could be right, my luv,” Benny said. Ben had met my mom a couple of times so he knew what he was talking about. “At least she got it right and made you if it was just the one time,” Ben joked and I laughed some more.
My parents divorced when I was fourteen—probably from a lack of regular rogering and the realization that they had absolutely no interest in each other, but to be fair, they’d both stayed in the same general area until I’d graduated high school. My mother would hop across the pond to London when the mood struck and I would take great delight in shocking her with my friends, lifestyle, and general obnoxiousness until she’d had enough of that particular visit. Her new husband, Frank, was much older than her, much richer than my father, and probably delighted when she left San Francisco on her trips. I doubt she got much rogering with Frank either. Maybe Frank got some when she was traveling but who the hell knew. My mother and I were at odds most of the time.
Now Daddy was a different story. He’d always been my go-to parent. He called me regularly and supported my choices. He loved me for who I was. And in my darkest hour was the sole reason I am still here walking the earth. I wondered what Dad would think of Ethan.
Ben took off to chat up some hot blonde as a possible lay and I stayed and sipped my Olympic Flame.
“Hey, lovely lady, those are some purty purple boots you got on there.” A big guy with red hair, sporting his own pair of boots, western jeans, and a belt buckle in the shape and size of Texas loomed over my table. An American for sure. There were tons of people filtering into London for the Olympic Games and this guy definitely looked like a European virgin.
“Thank you. I collect cowboy boots.” I smiled at him.
“You collect cowboys, huh?” He dragged his eyes over me leeringly. “Then I s’pose I’m in the right place.” He sat down next to me, his big body crowding me on the lounge seating. “I’ll be your cowboy if you want,” he muttered the rest under his alcohol breath, “you can ride me.”
I scooted over on the seat and turned away.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“My name is, I’m-not-interested.” I stone faced him. “And my middle name is, You’ve-got-to-be-kidding-you-drunk-pig.”
“Now is that any way to be friendly to your American guests all the way here from Texas?” Big Red leaned closer and laid his arm on the back of the seat, pushing up against my side, his leg plastered next to mine, his breath blowing in my face. “You don’t know what yer missin.”
“I think I have a pretty good idea.” I leaned back as far as I could from him and scooted further down the seat. “Do they teach you manners in Texas or do the girls there like obnoxious drunks who proposition them in public?”
Big Red did not take the hint, or maybe he was too dumb to comprehend my question because he grabbed my hand and lurched to his feet, pulling me along. “Dance with me, honey.”
I balked but his grip was so strong I didn’t have a chance against his tremendous mass. He was like a hairy red caveman who’d had too much grog, jerking me against his body and slithering us around the dance floor. His hand covered my ass and started creeping up my skirt. That’s when I picked up my boot and rammed the heel down as hard as I could on his toe.
“Get your hand off my ass before your balls become pom-poms for my boots. You have two balls and I have two boots—one for each.” I gave him a fake smile.
He grunted at me and narrowed his eyes. I could tell he was contemplating if I was serious or not and then he made a sneer and backed off of me. “Cold, English bitch,” he muttered, weaving through the crowd, off to harass some other poor person most likely.