Excessica Anthology BOX SET Winter (10 page)

His eyes tracked
across the nearest table and focused on the white porcelain cup. It still had a
trace of chocolate in its base. A paper napkin lay folded beside it and on the
rim between, a smudge of color remained.

He recognized
the color. He could have picked it from any cosmetics display without
hesitation. It made no sense, but it was so. It had to be coincidence. There
had to be a different explanation. Perhaps it was a common shade…but, no. He
knew it wasn't, and even if it were, he could never identify it as such. The
only explanation that fit was the very one he resisted. Yet he knew he had seen
that color night after night for months. He could picture the lips that wore
it, hear the…hear
her
voice. The voice that had just ordered a double
raspberry mocha!

Maybe there
really was something to this destiny foolishness.

~
FOUR
~

Mornings smelled
differently on the west coast, she decided, savoring the last tastes of her
raspberry double mocha indulgence on her lips. Not better or worse, just
different. The climate, as expected, was more temperate. December in San Diego
felt like April in Baltimore, although there wasn't nearly as much of a delta
between the daily high and low temperatures. Perhaps the steady hum of
anticipation heightened her senses, or perhaps she'd developed a new
meta-awareness of her surroundings. Regardless of the cause, it was
invigorating and she reveled in every touch, every taste, and every scent. Even
the breeze blowing across her face felt like a lover's caress—with its
fingers lifting her hair to expose and kiss her neck.

As she strolled
along Prospect Street, taking in the sights and sounds of downtown La Jolla,
the bustling coffee shop had drawn her inside. He was nearby, she suspected.
She could feel his restless need. It mirrored her own and fueled the
anticipation. Knowing, inexplicably, that this wasn't the right place or the
right moment for their meeting, she simply savored his proximity. The time was
drawing near, and the place—she'd learned from the friendly soul who
responded to her e-mail—had a name: Black's Beach. The map on the front
seat of her rental car was already marked with the route. He'd advised her to
wear sturdy shoes if she planned to hike down to the beach, as the trail was
rough to begin with and made more so by last March's storms. Thus, her
afternoon agenda included shopping for footwear, for she'd not the time to do
so before her flight departed BWI.

While eager to
get on with her day, she still felt the pang of withdrawal as she finished her
coffee and returned to the streets. Although certain tonight wasn't
the
night, she planned to drive up to Torrey Pines around sunset anyway—to
gauge the timing and scope out the area, if nothing else. It appeared to be
about three miles, as the crow flew, but distances could be deceiving. Plus,
there could be road construction or other delays to avoid. The rental car was
an expense she could not afford, especially considering the cost of the hotel,
but having traveled all the way across the country in pursuit of a dream, she
was not going to trust the most important part of the journey to the
unpredictability of a taxi.

Resisting the
urge to indulge herself in some of the nicer shops, but she eventually found
some Reeboks that would suffice. She cringed at incurring yet another expense,
but it seemed rather silly to scrimp on preparations to meet her destiny.

Destiny. The
word inspired conflict in her. She believed, with all her heart, in free will.
Yet another part of her believed just as strongly that some people were meant
to be together; that such chemistry was very real and, once discovered, must be
allowed to flourish lest the force of it destroy one's peace. And so, once
again, she splurged; just as she had splurged on the flight, the hotel, the car
and, to a lesser degree, the fancy coffee. It was almost as if the cosmos
required a tangible investment as proof of her commitment; a test, of sorts.
Yet soon—very soon—all such mundane concerns would be eclipsed by
passion.

If not, she
reasoned, she'd just have an extravagant winter holiday in a place she'd never
been. That would be easier for friends and family to swallow. If told the real
reason for her impulsive trip, they would be surprised—if not completely
amazed—by her spontaneity, although they were undoubtedly already
speculating about the changes in her.

At work, both
colleagues and clients noticed the shift in her demeanor. They often found her
staring off into space, and her designs took on an entirely different
style—airy and more ethereal. When confronted, she shrugged it off to
some sort of seasonal malaise. Sharing the dream felt like a betrayal, for some
reason she couldn't quite fathom. Once she admitted to herself that she really
wanted it to come true, it became impossible to discuss with anyone lest she
jinx it—like a birthday wish that wouldn't be granted if revealed.

Family and
friends would be supportive once they had time to adjust to the idea, but that
was time she just didn't have. Her parents would roll their eyes and scold her
for being frivolous. Responsible adults simply did not drop everything and rush
off to meet a strange man from a dream. He could be an ax murderer, they'd
argue, if he existed at all. And so, from the start, she'd kept the dreams to
herself. There was something mystical about them that would be cheapened if
shared.

~
FIVE
~

The day passed
more pleasantly than expected. After so many years living in a tourist
destination he tended to forget why people visited. Now, coming home after
spending the last few years away, he remembered things he never realized were
forgotten: taco shops, Balboa Park in the afternoon, hearing multiple languages
while walking the streets. Spanish had once been as familiar a sound as English
to his ears. It was too bad the Chargers were out of town or maybe he would
have taken in a game. The team thrived on the running game and defense now, not
the Air Coryell of his youth, but he was sure he still would have enjoyed it.
He missed the Sunday afternoon ritual of football and tailgating.

Instead, he
returned to the hotel to watch the sunset from his window before heading down
Prospect and up Girard to Warwick's Book Store. Grabbing a couple of things
that looked interesting, he backtracked to
The Spot
for a Monte Cristo
and Karl Strauss Red Trolley Ale. It had once been a favorite place when he
worked out of an office in Sorrento Valley. The open windows to let in the
ocean breeze and the people walking by in the fading light appealed to him, but
tonight he felt more solitary. He asked for a table back in the corner by the
bar and ordered without glancing at the menu. Normally he would have flirted
with a waitress as pretty as this one, but tonight it felt inappropriate
somehow. He took a long pull on the beer and settled down to explore the world of
Conscious Dreaming
according to Robert Moss. When the deep fried
sandwich arrived, he happily devoured it with its layers of cheese, ham and
turkey—going through extra raspberry jam as he did so. The jam seemed to
trigger something, and for a second he felt light headed and hyper aware of his
surroundings, but then pulled back into himself as the pretty blonde waitress
returned to ask him about another beer. He declined with a smile, pulled out
his MasterCard, handed it to her, and dipped his head back into the book.

That night, he
walked along the beach for a couple miles, wondering at the way the sky was
lit. The realization that the sun had gone down hours ago made him aware he was
dreaming—consciously dreaming, like in the book. As he rounded the point
and came upon the place where the state beach took over from the city one, he
began to undo his buttons and loosen his shirt. He had long since pulled off
the sandals to let his toes feel the warm sand as the sun dipped toward the
horizon. He dropped the shirt off his shoulders with a shrug and set it down
with his towel, then pulled off his khakis and boxers with a
what-the-hell?
shrug and decided to take a quick swim before the sun disappeared.

He headed back
to the beach and let the sun dry him with only the slightest of help from the
towel. Picking up his clothes, he walked towards a secluded spot at the base of
the cliff where one would basically have to be walking the same path from water
to cliff in order to see anyone against the rocks. It was as private a niche as
could exist on a public beach. With the end of the trail coming down from the
cliffs just to the north, there was more chance of being overheard than
overseen. He took a moment to gaze back at water, imagining he could see the
steam rising from the spot the sun kissed; hot curling wisps reminiscent of the
coffee against the wide windows at
The Living Room
.

He turned toward
the cliff face, and there she was. The setting sun shining over his shoulder
painted her in warm oranges and golds, and the very taste of her floated on the
ocean breeze. She began to move faster, shedding garments as she approached,
almost running across the warm sand, and he moved to meet her, take her in his
arms, and thrust her back towards the little hideaway. He meant to throw her to
the sand and ravish her, but was unwilling to take the time. Instead he took
her ass in his hands and lifted her up as his tongue found hers. He growled a
single word into her neck and attacked.

One of her legs
came up to wrap around his waist, and her hips wiggled against his rapidly
hardening cock. She urged him on with savage words, and he felt her heat
against his tip. She slipped down as he thrust up and slid easily into her. She
was burning inside, a wet fire that scared him with its implications of joyful
pain. He buried himself inside her until he could go no further. For a moment
they both stilled to savor the end to the mystery. Behind them the sun finally
dipped to touch the horizon, and he lowered her to the sand…

And
woke—with her image burned into his eyes and the raspberry taste of her
on his lips. More than a dream this time, it was instead a tease or even a
warning: beware, lest you risk everything for her. He remembered it, and even
muttered it before lifting his pillow and fluffing it with his fists. He gave
the stiffly tucked-in blankets of the hotel bed a yank to free them from the
mattress so they would curl around his feet. Then, he slipped back into slumber
and once more found himself walking that beach.

~
SIX
~

Returning to the
hotel after her sunset 'reconnaissance mission,' she plopped onto the bed,
simultaneously hyped and exhausted. She was unprepared for the intensity of the
pull as she stood at cliff's edge looking down onto the beach, and she'd
actually taken a few steps along the trail before stopping herself. The moment
the sun touched the water, she believed she could see him standing
there—a solitary figure framed by the sun and facing the spot where the
path met the beach. By the time the sun slipped fully into the sea, the magical
moment passed. She returned to her car, shaken but even more confident that
their meeting was indeed meant to be.

After a shower
and brief nap, she ventured out to find a bite to eat. She considered asking
the bellman for a recommendation, but decided instead to let the mystery guide
her. She'd not walked far at all when a place called
The Spot
beckoned.
In spite of the crowd, she was seated almost immediately at a small table near
the bar, jumping ahead of the larger parties that were waiting. A perky blonde
waitress delivered ice water with a wedge of lemon and flashed a wink before
disappearing with her tray.

The dream had
come again during her nap—something that had never happened
before—and she marveled at its new clarity. Now that she knew the
location, many other details also became clearer. His features, especially the
piercing blue eyes, came into focus and were comfortingly familiar—like
home
.
The dream sensations she was able to remember had always centered on smell,
taste, and touch. Now, however, she believed she could identify him visually if
they bumped into one another on the street.

For the first
time, too, she was actually aware that she was dreaming. It was known as lucid
dreaming, she knew from a recent
Newsweek
article, and there were many
who longed to understand and achieve it, believing that it could be used for a
variety of purposes. Proponents of lucid dreaming claimed that one's dreams
could be directed. Sleep clinics existed to assist clients in directing their
dreams in order to safely explore a situation, resolve a conflict, or simply
experience a situation that was unattainable in waking life. She initially
found the prospect rather desperate but, upon further reading, came to
appreciate its therapeutic potential.

She didn't try
to direct her dream, as some attempted to do, but voraciously absorbed every
new detail: feeling the breeze against her bare skin; hearing the sounds of
their bodies slamming together with undeniable urgency; and soaring on waves of
arousal so thick that she could taste them. They tasted of skin and sea and
sweet raspberry sunsets.

"Penny,"
the waitress interrupted her reverie.

"Pardon?"

"Penny for
your thoughts," the blonde winked again. "You have the most…well,
let's just say 'interesting' expression on your face."

She laughed,
"Just remembering an incredible dream—one in which I knew I was
dreaming."

"No
kidding? What a coincidence! That red-haired gentleman over there…" she
paused to look toward the corner. "Well, he was there just a minute ago.
Anyway, he was reading a book about that."

"Is
that so?" she replied as a familiar rush swept across her chest. "I
used to believe in coincidences."