Authors: Elizabeth Lowe
Poached by the reprimand, Brad
countered sarcastically, “Yes, mother, I should, but I'm not.”
Anger ignited, unintentionally Sam
slammed her cup down splattering steaming hot coffee onto her hand, “Jesus
Christ,” she spewed.
Hurriedly
plucking paper towels, Brad considered how foreign the expletives sounded
coming from Sam's mouth.
Reaching to
examine her hand, unconsciously coating his worry with ridicule, he sputtered,
“He's not here right now, so I'll have to do.
Does it hurt?”
Slapping his hand away, Sam cried,
“What do you think?
Dammit, don't touch
me.”
“Have it your way,” he bellowed,
tossing the paper towels into her lap.
Like
a foreboding streak of lightening, Brad snatched the bottle of whiskey.
Feeling Sam's glare piercing his back he
tossed the Whiskey into the wastebasket, and stomped out onto the deck so
desperate was he for air.
He was angry
for revealing his feelings too brazenly on his sleeve.
Unable to resist, “It's raining.
You jerk,” Sam goaded.
“Who gives a shit,”
he retorted.
Finding their mutual sudden mood
swing perplexing, guilt rustled their insides.
At the same time, they met in the doorway to apologize in unison, “I'm
sorry.”
Pausing briefly, they tried
again. “I don't . . . “
Brad relented, “You go
first.”
Grasping at the only
plausible explanation, Sam confessed, “I don't know what's wrong with me.
I didn't sleep well last night and it's such
a lousy day.”
“Ditto,” Brad
sympathized. “I'm sorry I bit your head off.
Is your hand alright?”
“It's fine.
Thank you.”
Politeness stifled
the air.
Neither could breathe.
The storm raging in each set of eyes came
rushing in like a hurricane.
Brad desperately fought the urge to
tug Sam into his arms.
He wanted to
press her against his chest so he could feel the thunder of their hearts.
Kiss her until the lightening left their
eyes.
Ride the flaming comet of passion
he knew would light both ends of the night.
The tempest within
escalating,
expanding and pressing his heart against his ribs, crowding his lungs
compelling them to expel the air necessary to verbalize what he longed to say,
fell short of its target, “Sam,”
was all
that floated out in the barest whisper.
The sound of her name on Brad's lips
shot shivers of pleasure to Sam's toes.
Suddenly she wondered what sound their lips
would make pressed together.
She
searched his electric eyes, his face, for a sign of what he was feeling, her
insides screaming in silent pain, fingers nervously fiddling with the hem of
her sweater.
Say something.
I know you want to.
Don't just look at me like that.
You are tearing me in two.
What is it?
What do you want from me?
I can't
love you, I won't.
I could never hold on
to you.
Kiss me. Oh, God, just kiss
me.
As though Sam's thoughts were as
transparent as a crystal ball, the palm of Brad's hand laid gently, like the
petal of a flower, against her cheek, his thumb roughing it to a rose with
gentle strokes.
A force inside, greater
than anything ever experienced, compelled her to press her cheek into its
warmth.
Meanwhile, the song of her
ecstasy moaning in her throat closed her eyes as thought's daunting, delicious,
and dangerous shifted into full gear.
Unable to remain calm, long fingers
cautiously curling around her neck hesitantly applied pressure to inch her face
ever so slowly closer to his.
Through
half closed lids, staring at Brad's sensuous mouth Sam gasped at the mere
thought of it touching hers.
Like a
flower in a drought, her rigid body wilted.
Weakness shot the length of her.
Warmth and moisture formed in the very quick of her.
For the first time in her life, she truly
knew what it meant to live dangerously.
Brad's eyes drifted languidly to
Sam's sweet full lips.
With a slow sweep
of his lids, black charring coals transformed into a furnace of desire, the
sight that convinced Sam coal could turn to diamonds.
His glowing embers were as if the world they
once resided in was an imaginary place transforming into a shooting star.
Lips, quivering with an awesome physical
need to explore the anonymous enigmatic force compelling them to open,
empowered sweltering breaths to mingle.
The pump of life in each body ceased beseeching tongues to break the
barrier of their confines to merge and provide the link necessary to make them
beat again as one.
But like all
Fairy tales, it had
to end.
Before drinking from the magic
potion, the front door slammed,
“Hello, anybody up
yet,” Ted’s all too familiar voice.
Configurations of total devastation
molded Sam and Brad's face liquefying the magical moment like snow in a heat
wave.
Their bodies quickly moved to
grant space just before Ted stood in the kitchen arms out stretched.
“Here you are.
Come to me, gorgeous.”
As if she had no
conscious control over her actions, Sam lethargically went to Ted like an
obedient child.
Ted's presence gave Brad his
marching orders.
The emotional weight of
watching Ted caress Sam constricted his chest.
The crushing pain of envy almost provoked a protest of thoughts
treacherous, and taboo.
Damn Ted, he was wrong for allowing
them time to get to know one another.
The woman he once knew as only a beautiful face and phenomenal body was
more, much more.
She was everything he
ever dreamed of, intelligent, witty, charming, and fantastically gorgeous
inside and out.
Suddenly, Brad's conscience,
faithful and nagging, broke out of its drugged state reminding him of the
friendship he would be sacrificing.
Fuck, he screamed inwardly his hand reaching into the waste- basket to
retrieve the bottle of whiskey that would provide the balm to numb his pain.
Unable to flip the switch to her
emotions, Sam draped in Ted's arms like a wet dishrag.
His kiss left her chilled to the bone.
Her pain went beyond feeling, beyond anything
she had ever experienced.
She retreated
somewhere above and beyond unable to deal with what was happening internally.
Ted drew back, his
forehead wrinkled with
concern,”What's
wrong
sweetheart?”
Knowing her behavior was suspicious,
Sam struggled with an explanation.
“Nothing . . . I'm . . . just surprised . . . that's all.
I didn't expect you so early.”
Pressing Sam closer,
“Are you sure you're alright?
You look
pale.”
“I didn't sleep well
last night, that's all.”
Ted's body coming against Sam
pressed his need into her soft flesh as he whispered, “Do you know every time
I'm away from you I have all I can do to cope?
We cannot keep this up, my darling.
I want you so much.
I love you.”
Disheartened by Sam's welcome, he
kissed her hard and deep his hands roaming her body trying to revive the
portion he was certain loved him.
Little
did he know he left untouched the part longing to experience Brad's kiss locked
in the deep, dark dungeon of regret?
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Arriving earlier than expected,
Peter conversed with Ted while Bernie headed for the kitchen to find Sam.
To her astonishment, she found the room in
bedlam, cabinets ransacked, counter space filled to capacity with bowls and
pans, everything flower dusted, in its midst, Sam looking forlorn, and
ragged.
Unaware of Bernie's presence,
Sam slammed a pot onto the stove, “God, Damn you, Brad.
Why did you do this to me?”
“Hi, Sam, I see you
got to know Brad well this week.
Obviously, you agree he is a royal pain in the ass.
What's all this?”
Bernie's voice startled Sam.
Looking as though she had just stepped off a
movie set, Bernie's face beamed with a special glow only another woman could
recognize.
Instantaneously, the tears
seeking release since Ted's arrival burst forward trickling in a steady stream
down Sam's cheeks.
rushing to
Sam's side to offer an embrace Bernie asked, “For heavens’ sake, girl, what's
wrong?”
Sam probably would
have told Bernie had she known, but her feelings were as if a thousand piece
jig-saw puzzle just hurled to the floor.
Holding Sam away from
her, Bernie burst into a rage.
“Brad!
It's him isn't it?
That no good son of
a. . . “
Between sobs, Sam
insisted, “No, no Bernie, honest, it has nothing to do with him.”
“Where is he,” Bernie
demanded.
Sam hiccupped, “I
don't know.
He disappeared as soon as
Ted arrived.”
“Did he try to seduce
you or something?”
Not believing Sam's
shaking head, Bernice continued, “I swear I'll. . .”
Wrenching herself
from Bernie's grip, Sam’s expression turned pleading, “Bernie, please this has
nothing to do with Brad.”
“I bet it
doesn't.
Men, we should hire a firing
squad and shoot them all.”
Thinking she would more than gladly
volunteer and knowing exactly who the first candidate would be, Sam blubbered
on, “It is just . . . I have never made a big dinner . . .
like this and Brad promised he would help,
that's all.”
“Well, he promised me too and by God
he's going to deliver.
Now, go upstairs,
take a hot shower and beautify yourself.
I'll find Brad.”
Sensing Sam's
reluctance she shoved her off with a wave of her hand clucking like a mother
hen, “Go on.”
Brad stood by the pond staring into
the unknown one hand in his pocket, the other holding the half-empty bottle of
booze at his side.
Approaching from
behind, Bernie shouted, “Hey, you've got some nerve.” Upon receiving no
acknowledgment, a hand full of his shirt spun him around.
The whites of his eyes were pink, the black
orb's, murky.
“I knew it.
Dammit all, I knew it.
I should have never left the two of you
alone.
What happened,” Bernie snapped.
Silence followed.
Shirtsleeves still in hand, she attempted
shaking him to his senses, “Answer me, Brad Johnson.”
Eyes downcast, Brad
kicked a pebble into the water, “Nothing!
My intentions and expenditures have been perfectly honorable.”
Releasing his shirtsleeves, the
palms of Bernie's hands shoved his chest, “In a pigs' eye.
Nothing you say, huh!
Is that why that poor girl is crying her eyes
out and you're out here trying to catch pneumonia?”