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Lady Luck (Chapt II)

Lady Luck (Chapt II)

In the process of stalking Tammy, Brett unwittingly becomes the hunted prey...
Chapter II

Fuck, it’s hot. The smashed fender is stubbornly resisting all efforts to pry it away from the rear tire. Sweat runs in small rivulets from my forehead, down my nose, then drips to the wavering pavement below. Feels a lot like a spider crawling on my face and I have to stop working, way too frequently, to wipe the tickle away.

The crowbar slips and a nanosecond before my knuckles crash into the rim, the rusty iron tip carves a six inch scratch in virgin paint. Son-of-a-bitch. Oh well, the fender is ugly anyway.

Blood oozes from skinned knuckles and the throbbing ache of molested flesh is nothing compared to the biting sting when sweat finds the open abrasion. More misery. Hey, Lady Luck….sorry I called you a cunt…cut me some slack…

After a fair amount of effort and a second knuckle grinding slip of the crowbar, I finally work the crumpled metal far enough away from the tire that I’m satisfied I won’t be stranded two blocks from here, changing a flat.

Worse than the heat, the work, and busted knuckles, my mind runs lap after lap chasing Tammy in a never-ending dog race with no finish line. Her eyes. Her smile. Man, that perfect ass. Just the thought of her stirs the warm, tingling beginnings of an erection. Great, get to spend the day nursing the wounds of rejection…with the added bonus of skinned knuckles and a bothersome half-hardon. Can’t believe she gave me a bogus number. Love ya, Lady Luck.

The Jeep starts on the first crank. Off to the parts house for a new tail light lens and bulbs. That oughtta just about clean my debit account out. I pull out of the Quickie Mart parking lot and turn down 5th St. A few blocks later, a right on University Avenue and I’m headed downtown. At 23rd and University, I catch the red light.

It’s after noon, and I haven’t eaten since the third round of leftover pizza, yesterday at about this time. Starving. There’s a McDonald’s a few blocks up so I check the console for loose change in hopes of scrounging enough for a dollar menu treat. I use the word “treat” sarcastically. Substitute “turd” and you’ll have a more accurate description of how I feel about what passes for food at Mickey D’s. However, when you’re digging through the ashtray, cup-holders, and console at a red light for your lunch money, tough to be choosy.

I’m in luck. Seven quarters, three dimes, four nickels (three of which are welded together by some unknown goo, but I’m pretty sure they still have to take ‘em…looks like tar…yeah, we’re callin’ it tar) and a dozen or so pennies. Looks like about $2.40, give or take a few pennies because the light changed before I had a chance to count them.

Tires screech as I turn into the parking lot and wheel around to the drive-thru. At the back of the building I bark my order of two regular cheeseburgers into the microphone and get an indistinguishable static reply that I assume is the price expected at the window. I cast a sidewise glance at the change in the cup holder and know it’ll be close.

Pulling around to the side of McGarbage, I’m in line behind a cute co-ed in a newish black Challenger with a pink pinstripe, and a beat-to-shit Honda with what I guess is either a door-to-door religious fanatic or a pedophile behind the wheel…just a creepy vibe. We are now in a row, facing back out onto University, patiently waiting for our turn at the window.

Now, my sitting in line waiting for shitty fast food is really not relevant to the story. What is relevant is the bar directly in front of me, across University from McDonalds. Yazooz!! I’m not exclaiming the name because I’m excited…that’s just how you spell it. Yazooz!! The sign mocks me.

Yazooz!! is a fairly popular hangout for the college crowd and thirty-somethings. It’s kind of a hip, trendy night club meets Middle Eastern palace motif. It’s really nothing special other than being the newest night club in town…with the most expensive drinks. Domestic beer is $6.50. Everything else escalates from there.

Three weeks ago, I met some friends there for a drink. I had three bottles of Miller Lite and an order of fries. The tab was twenty seven dollars and change before tip. The waitress was very attentive, super-cool, and very cute. I ran my card and with tip, I walked out of there with a receipt for $37.50 (part of the reason I’m digging change from under the seat to pay for lunch). I promptly wadded it up, threw it in the passenger floorboard and went on about my merry way.

Cut to last night about ten thirtyish. Tammy, very cutely, wrote the number to Dairy Queen on the back of that very receipt last night. Thus beginning a bitter-sweet chain of events that, over the course of a few hours, led to the best horrible night of my life and resulted in me sitting in the drive-thru line at McDonald’s, wallowing in the worst depression of my life.

When I handed her the receipt, she pointed at the Yazooz!! emblem on the front and said, very sweetly, “I go there all the time. Don’t remember ever seeing you there.”

I go there all the time. I go there all the time. I go there all the time. I go there all the time. I go there all the time. I go there all the time. I go there all the time. I go there all the time. I go there all the time. I go there all the time. I go there all the time. I go there all the time…et cetera.

Her sweet voice echoing, I go there all the time, blasts from the huge Yazooz!! sign like rap from a bass speaker, resonating through my soul.

Before really thinking it through, I scan the parking lot for a black Yukon. My little voice of reason reminds me that it’s noon-ish on Thursday and she didn’t seem like such an advanced alcoholic that she might be partying it up at the club quite this early. Yeah, yeah, fuck off I’m still pissed at you. I check the lot anyway. And recheck just to be sure. No Yukon.

A horn honks and I’m brought back to reality by some cowboy in a lifted Ford yelling from his window, “Pull up, asshole!!” Reality sucks.

The Challenger and Honda have moved on about their happy way without my noticing. I wave at the dude and pull forward. Ok, I kinda deserved that, I guess. I trade a half a handful of change for two cheeseburgers, and feel slightly ripped off.

Turning onto University toward the AutoZone, I can’t help checking Yazooz!! lot one more time. No Yukon. I go there all the time. I go there all the time. I go there all the time…


It’s early evening and traffic is light, even for a Thursday. I’m leaving Mrs. Mason’s house, headed home. Sweetest little lady alive, Mrs. Mason is the grandmother of Jacob Mason, my best friend from grade school until he left for the Marines shortly after graduation. Now, eleven years later, he’s still trotting around the world shooting at bad guys and I keep an eye on Mrs. Mason for him. Doesn’t take much really, just little odd jobs and fix it stuff here and there. Mainly I try to stop by at least once a week to sit on the porch, drink sweet tea, and chat for an hour or so to keep her from getting too lonely.

I know it sounds weird calling your best friend’s grandmother Mrs. Mason instead of Nanna, or Gran, or whatever pet name the kids have for her, but Mrs. Mason is what her grandkids call her. It’s what everybody calls her…Even Jacob’s dad, Mrs. Mason’s son, calls his mother Mrs. Mason.

Today, after the parts store fiasco, I finished rebuilding a section of fence in her back yard. Took me most of yesterday and a couple hours this afternoon, so Mrs. Mason forced me to take $150 for the work. I always try to talk her out of paying me for odd jobs, but Mrs. Mason always insists. Doesn’t do much good to argue with Mrs. Mason. I highly suspect that she only comes up with most of these little projects to have an excuse to float a few bucks my way when she knows things are tight. Sweetest little lady alive.

Heading home, I can’t help thinking about Tammy. The despair I felt most of the morning has slowly evolved into anger and is quickly working its way up to hate level orange. Amazing sex and crazy-hotness aside, the bitch stiffed me on getting my Jeep fixed. And it was her intention from the beginning. Now, I’m driving around with a trailer light duct-taped and jerry-rigged in place of the original. Fender was so screwed up the replacement lens wouldn’t fit.

The thought has crossed my mind to take my newfound riches (the $150 Mrs. Mason gave me) and treat myself to a few drinks at Yazooz!! tonight. Voice of reason thinks it’s a bad idea. Says the odds are slim of running into her. Says it will just be a waste of time and money. Says the money would be best spent at the grocery store on real food. Voice of reason is a short-sighted dick.

I check the clock on the dash panel. Just after seven p.m. Abruptly changing lanes to cut across 68th to University, I do the math in my head. If I hurry, I can get home and clean up and be back at Yazooz!! by eight-thirty, easy. Gonna make a pass down University first just to see if there are any black Yukons in the parking lot. Voice of reason, you can kiss my ass.

The Yazooz!! sign is visible several blocks before the parking lot comes into view. I go there all the time... I go there all the time... I go there all the time… I go there all the time… Her voice rings in my ears as I approach stalking distance of the bar.

I drive my tattered Jeep through the lot, but only down the lane near the street. Slowing nearly to a stop to look down each lane of parking spaces, I’m probably the poorest, most obvious stalker ever. Can’t help but feel a little creepy. Never stalked anyone before, and I can’t say I dig it much. But I’m determined to at least get her real insurance information and get my damned Jeep fixed right.

I count four black Yukons and one black Tahoe. All new, or at least newish, but none still sporting dealer tags. Voice of reason reminds me that this is pointless. I remind voice of reason to fuck off. Neither of us listens to the other.


By the time I finish showering and dressing, I’m convinced the effort is futile. No way she’s gonna show up unless she doesn’t remember telling me she hangs out there. In my mind I’ve turned her from gorgeous blonde goddess into crafty, desperate criminal. Evading capture for any number of fraudulent offenses, she willfully seduces unsuspecting victims and then unceremoniously disappears, leaving only heartbreak and despair for the poor, unwitting souls who are stuck with a bogus number and a few sweat-soaked memories.

I talk myself into believing that the only reason I’m going is to have a few well-deserved beers and maybe run into some friends. I need a night out. Been too long. I deserve a night out. That’s why I’m going. Yeah, I know, I don’t really believe that bullshit either. But, fuck it…I’m already dressed and I have to say I look pretty damned good. If I do run into her, at least I’m not wearing taco sauce and a Big Drink this time.

Yazooz!! is moderately busy, for a Thursday this early in the evening. The college crowd will come out, en force, and party until closing, but won’t show up until around ten or ten-thirty. The after work thirty-somethings have already come and gone for the most part. Most of the crowd now consists of guys shooting pool in the back room and a handful of happy-hour layover groups scattered through the dining area.

Juke box selections ranging from Johnny Cash to Five Finger Death Punch can be heard rolling across the room but the music is still at a comfortable, perfect-for-conversation volume. Later, the Deejay will blast crappy techno and hip-hop so loud you can’t hear a friend’s comments unless they are shouted directly into your ear canal. Yet another reason I hate these fucking places.

I choose a table toward the back, with a view of the main entrance, and sit alone. A cute, overly friendly waitress named Cindy (probably Cindi with two “i’s” now that I think of it…so she can dot the “i’s” with little hearts or smiley faces) smiles oh-so-sweetly when I order my beer and bounces happily toward the bar to fetch it for me.

Not much going on, so I entertain myself by watching the small groups of patrons and trying to figure out which has been here the longest by comparing the average intoxication level of each table. This game doesn’t last long because there is a table of six women, dressed in business/office wear, who may have been here since lunch-- Last Tuesday. Boisterous outbursts of laughter erupt often and there is much cackling and giggling to fill the gaps between.

One woman in particular is having an extremely good time. Must have been a particularly stressful work week so far, because she is cutting looo-oossse. Probably in her mid-twenties, slightly overweight, short, bottle-blonde hair, and has the most irritating, high pitched, ear-raping laugh I’ve heard in recent memory. She has already been warned by an uptight manager about standing/dancing in her chair, and seems to think everything uttered at their table is the most hilarious thing she’s ever heard…including Mr. No-fun-will-be-tolerated’s warning against dancing on the furniture. She only stops giggling long enough to take generous slugs from a large, pink, fru-fru drink with too many straws and umbrellas…most likely some type of strawberry daiquiri.

Her friends, all attractive women ranging in ages from early twenties to mid-thirties, are acutely aware that they are the center of attention and shoot nervous, slightly embarrassed glances at the other patrons every time Strawberry Drunk Cake does something obnoxious.

Particularly attractive, and thirty-ish, a brunette at the end of the table appears indifferent to the party and pretends to be busy with her phone. She’s medium height with long, wavy, chestnut hair. Grey skirt, white blouse, and a navy jacket hanging from the back of her chair. From my vantage point it appears she has a well-proportioned, athletic figure. I know she only pretends to be busy because every few seconds she glances my way, waits for me to make eye contact, then smiles sweetly.

I would be flattered except that, other than a couple of nerdy accountant types and a handful of pool-shooting rednecks in back, I’m the only unescorted male in the building. Were I not on a mission to track down the evil Tammy…if that’s even her real name… it would be a wonderful opportunity to take advantage of Phone Girl’s boredom and limited options by walking over and saying hi. Instead, I politely return the smile and take a slow, carefully metered sip of my over-priced beer.

I pull my phone from my jeans pocket and thumb to my e-mail account. Same three messages still appear in the inbox, unopened. For the first time my curiosity is piqued. I tap the first message from cutie_girl@something-or-other dot com. It reads:

Jus read your ad and jus thot I wud hit u up. All cool here and jus looking for someone hang with. If you want to hang jus call me or txt. 555-212-3090 smoochies

Delete. Idiot. Something about text lingo just turns me off. If you are too stupid or too lazy to give spelling and punctuation at least half a shot, then I’m prolly not interested in wasting time trying to decipher the deep, spiritual meaning of the Buddhist proverb scrawled in your neck tattoo.

Nnnnnnext. This one is from hippiechick420@some-other-site dot com. I almost hit the delete button before opening the message based on the e-mail handle alone, but I’m basically bored so I flash a quick smile back to Phone Girl, then open the message:

Whats up? Im twenty six and looking for someone to party with. Not looking for anything serious, just fun. Liked the picture in your ad…your hot!!!...if you want texy me and we can chat up. Must be 420 friendly and into open relationship. 555-212-3455 Piece, Julie

At least her name wasn’t Moonbeam. Sorry Moonbeam, prolly not gonna be Texy-ing you any time soon. And it’s peace, not piece. Learn to spell a fucking bullshit mantra before you buy into it. Delete. I’m beginning to think the ad was an even worse idea than my little voice of reason said it would be. Asshole. I look at the third and final message, hope dwindling and convinced that the online ad was a bigger waste of time than the bar scene…oh well, at least it’s cheaper. I tap the icon and the message from Brianna_D45 pops open:

Hi there!!

I’m 36, recently divorced, and trying to get back into the dating thing. I don’t really know what to write here, but I liked your ad and would love to get to know each other. I don’t really like going through the whole “stats” thing so I attached a pic. I found yours very sexy and hope you like mine as well. If so, e-mail me back and we can get to know each other. Looking forward to hearing from you!!!

Kisses, Bri

I open the picture file and find a cute red-head with freckles and a great smile standing next to a palm tree, apparently on vacation somewhere semi-tropical. She is wearing loose fitting shorts and a T-shirt in an effort to camouflage a little extra padding around the waist. Overall very cute, though, and I’m a sucker for a girl who can put together a rational thought and throw it into a written paragraph. Save. My faith is restored in online dating. Maybe.

Bouncy, bubbly, super-nice waitress Cindi cruises by to check on me. “Ready for another beer, Sweetie?”

“No, I’m good thanks… trying to pace myself. Don’t want Mr. Personality to have to come shoo me off a chair later,” I shoot her a wink.

“You have noooooo idea,” she leans close, affording me a close-up view of the ample breasts peeking out of her low-cut top, and says under her breath, “he is suuuuch a dick.” She pretends to brush crumbs off the table and returns the wink.

She toddles off to check on her other tables and I casually admire the gentle sway of her firm buttocks as they roll nicely beneath black yoga shorts. It’s a cruel thing really. There might as well be a message stenciled across that says ‘You can’t have this…haaa, ha-ha, ha-ha…haaaa’. Message wouldn’t fit on her tiny little butt, but you know what I’m saying.

I pull up Brianna’s message again and read it through a couple times to make sure there’s no weird, hidden sub-text that’s code for: “I’m a psycho gay rapist with a lot of shiny chrome torture tools.” I can’t find any so I punch the reply button and begin several times and erase before settling on:

Hi Brianna,

Thank you for responding. I was beginning to think no one would. Like the ad said, I’m a pretty normal guy who’s tired of going to movies and eating dinner alone. I’m also recently divorced…well, about three years…I guess recently isn’t exactly accurate. Anyway, I’m not looking for another marriage, but not exactly avoiding it either. I’m mostly interested in just finding someone I can enjoy spending time with. From your reply I can tell you that I am very interested in getting to know you and hopefully meeting at some point. My job is a little demanding time-wise so I hope you’ll bear with me a little when it comes to setting up a date. Can’t wait to hear from you. If you’re comfortable with talking or texting me, the number is 555-790-5813. If not, I understand. Just shoot me another e-mail telling me more about yourself. Work, school, hobbies, you know, the usual stuff.

Later, Brett

Send. I look up from the phone to scan the room. No Tammy to be found. With the exception of a fortyish, country-looking couple, no new faces in the crowd. This is dumb. And a waste of money. And a waste of time. And I gotta work in the morning. For once I’m beginning to agree with my voice of reason. It’s not really late even by grandpa’s standards, but I’ve only been here thirty five minutes and have completely exhausted my entire arsenal of distractions from the fact that I’m bored and alone. What is it about being in a bar alone that amplifies loneliness to the thousandth power?

Cindi approaches from the bar carrying a fresh Miller Lite, a broad smile painting her face. She really is sweet. Gonna have to tip well. But I really don’t want the beer. Just the tab ma’am.

“I’m sorry, but I didn’t order that,” I point at the bottle in her hand, “I think I’m just gonna pay my tab and head home.”

“Too bad,” she has a mischievous twinkle in her eye, “table six will be devastated,” she cocks her head in the direction of the Strawberry Drunk Cake/Phone Girl table. “Surely you can stay long enough to drink this one, Hun…it’s on them. Still want your tab?” She smiles triumphantly as if she has been secretly pulling for the poor, pathetic, lonely guy at table 13 all night. (I don’t know what number it is, but I know my luck).

I turn my gaze to table six to see six female faces intently looking my direction and anxiously awaiting some kind of response. “No, I guess I’ll stick around a while,” I absently mumble to Cindi before she happily be-bops back to the bar to watch the show.

Table six is still in suspended animation, waiting for some kind of reaction. Twelve eyes bore through me as I try to figure out exactly what the hell to do. For lack of a better idea, I raise the ice cold bottle in silent toast and exaggeratedly mouth “THANK…YOU” in the direction of table six.

The gesture is met with an immediate outburst of raucous giggling and laughter as they all turn to discuss my apparently hilarious reaction. Strawberry Drunk Cake is on the verge of hyperventilating. She’s turning a deep red hue, and fitfully alternating between Ti-hee-hee-heeing until no form of air is left in her lungs, then snorting loudly to re-load. Ti-hee-hee, Ti-hee-hee, Ti-hee-hee, tiny cough, tiny cough, Snnnoooort, and repeat. Her color gives me mild concern for her safety. Her head may well pop.

The warm flush of embarrassment fills my face. My cheeks burn and an urgent need to be anywhere else suddenly overwhelms me. I’m not really easily flustered, and not particularly self-conscious, but six (well, five) attractive women giggling uncontrollably in your direction as you sit completely friendless in a bar is an unsettling occurrence no matter what your level of self-confidence might be.

I try to sip the beer coolly, but cool kinda escapes me. Ever noticed that, when in an uncomfortable situation like a table full of drunk chicks laughing at you for unknown reasons, the harder you try to act natural, the harder it is to remember what the fuck natural feels like? Dear Lady Luck, I really don’t need this shit right now. Last night was a sufficient beat down to my ego. You can cut the bullshit any time. Thanks, Hun.

My attempts at acting relaxed, natural, and cool feel suspiciously like squirming. Ti-hee-hee, Ti-hee-hee, Ti-hee-hee, tiny cough, tiny cough, Snnnoooort… Ti-hee-hee, Ti-hee-hee, Ti-hee-hee, tiny cough, tiny cough, Snnnoooort…She really might pass out. Pretty sure she’s at least peed a little.

I take a long pull from the beer and contemplate throwing a twenty on the table and bolting for the door. I’m just about to make a break for it when Phone Girl slides her chair back, catches her navy blazer in her left hand, her drink in her right, and begins the short walk to table 13. She’s smiling warmly while apologizing with dark, soft eyes. Her walk is smooth and graceful. She exudes subtle confidence and a certain elegance that doesn’t really fit as well in a mid-level nightclub as it would in the upper-class atmosphere of a country-club lounge. She should be surrounded by rich mahogany and fine artwork instead of cheap, faux Middle Eastern finery.

“May I?” She gestures to the chair across the table from me.

“Please,” I manage a weak smile and feel I’m doing a poor job of masking the confusion in my eyes.

“Sorry ‘bout my friends,” she hooks a thumb in the direction of table six. “They lack good manners.”

“Hmm. Hadn't noticed,” I smile a little better this time but have to work to keep the ‘what-the-fuck?’ look off my face.

She smiles very warmly and extends her hand, “Wendy Brandt.”

Taking the proffered hand, “Brett Delaney, nice to meet you Miss Brandt,” I try to mimic the relaxed formality of her introduction but I’m pretty sure I haven’t pulled it off. Her hand is soft and supple. The fingers are long and slender, tipped with short, perfectly French-manicured nails.

“Actually, it’s Dr. Brandt, but just call me Wendy,” she has a way of being very proper and warmly engaging at the same time. Her gorgeous, deep, brown eyes exude a friendly energy that puts me somewhat at ease.

“Well, impressive Wendy. Are you a doctor of something useful or are you one of those, doctors of modern studies of thirteenth century Latin-based literature, or some such nonsense? You know, the type who read way too much in their spare time, go to poetry readings, shake their head condescendingly at everything I say…. Oh yeah, and stock cat-food and pork rinds on the night shift at the Quickie Mart to pay the rent ...” Please don’t be a fucking doctor of modern studies of thirteenth century Latin-based literature… Please don’t be a fucking doctor of modern studies of thirteenth century Latin-based literature.

Her eyes soften and she chuckles daintily, “No, orthodontics. You’re funny. What do you do Mr. Delaney?”

“You can call me Brett. I stock cat food and pork rinds on the night shift at the Quickie Mart.”

Dr. Wendy narrows her eyes and shoots me a fake-angry look, “I don’t believe you, Brett. What do you really do?”

“Ya got me. I actually work for the City. Mostly scrubbing toilets, tossing trash, and mopping floors, occasionally washing a vehicle or two,” I watch her eyes for a hint of disappointment. If there is any, she hides it well.

Unfazed, she smiles the perfect smile of an orthodontist and asks, “Which building do you clean? City Hall? Is the mayor as much of an ass as he seems in his interviews?”

It’s my turn to chuckle, “I dunno, never met him. I work at a fire station.”

“I guess I was always under the impression that the firemen cleaned their own buildings.”

“We do. Sorry. Lame attempt at being clever. Let’s start over. I’m a fireman.”

Her eyes slowly close and she drops her chin to her chest, “Sorry, I guess I’m a little slow tonight. Didn’t pick up on the hint. I see I’m going to have to pay attention to keep up…So, starting over, thank you so much for what you do.”

I hate it when people say that. I mean, I love it, but I have no idea what to say back. I take a long pull from the free beer and buy time to think of a response.

“Well, you’re very welcome, and, thank you very much for the beer.”

Dr. Wendy smiles inquisitively, “So, are you waiting for friends or are you just hanging around waiting for something to catch fire?”

I chuckle at the joke as if I’d never heard it before and return the smile, “Neither, actually. Thought I might run into someone here, but no luck so far. I was actually just about to leave when you sent the beer over.”

“Well… I’m someone, aren’t I?” Her dark eyes twinkle with flirtatious, teasing mischief.

“Oh, well, uh yeah. That’s not how I meant it,” I look into her eyes and smile as warmly as possible, “and you certainly are someone. Someone a lot more interesting than who I was talking about. Lemme return the favor and buy you another drink?”

“I like your idea better.”

I feel my brow raise inquisitively, “What idea?”

“Let’s get out of here. I’m tired of the girls from the office snickering and giggling and shooshing each other trying to hear what we’re saying. It’s…distracting,” she rolls her eyes to punctuate the remark.

“Okay. I’m good with that. Where do you wanna go? Have you had dinner?”

“No. I’m famished. Dinner sounds great.”

Who the fuck says famished? I can’t help feeling a little…rural…with her. Unrefined.

I check the time on my phone. 9:15. “Everything should still be open. Where do you want to meet?”

“How about my place? I have cheese and wine, probably some fruit. It’s a beautiful night, we can eat on the patio and talk in peace?” Her eyes search mine hopefully.

“Sounds great. What’s the address?”

“I’ll drive. We can come back for your car later. It’ll give us something to do if the conversation lulls,” she shoots me a wink.

No argument from me. I reply by fishing a twenty out of my jeans and tossing it on the table. Cindi with two “i’s” gets a $12.50 tip for her part in arranging two beers and this welcome surprise. Oh yeah, Dear Lady Luck, you’re friggin’ awesome and don’t ever let anyone tell you differently. Love Brett, XXXOOO

We stand together and I gesture for her to lead the way. As we make our way to the door, Cindi the waitress gives me a silent thumbs up and a knowing wink, as if we were frat buddies and I just walked out of the head cheerleader’s bedroom…with the head cheerleader… and her twin sister… and their coach… and Jaime Pressly. Cindi is an enthusiastic girl. I like her and will come back just to tip her again.


It was a short drive and the conversation was relaxed and easy, especially for two people who hardly know each other. Got my first ride in a Mercedes Benz. Very nice. If you dig doing things that remind you how utterly broke you are.

Now I’m sitting in a cushy, turquoise, flower patterned patio chair, sipping rather expensive red wine with a name I can neither recall nor pronounce, much less spell. I’m gazing out over the swimming pool as it casts shimmering blue light on the entire back terrace of Dr. Wendy’s elaborately decorated home. This patio set alone, four chairs, table, and umbrella is worth more than the furnishings in every room of my house combined. I feel both out of place and a sense of contentment at the same time. I’m definitely out of place; the surroundings suggest that Dr. Wendy’s orthodontic practice is not the only source of income. I’m guessing family money. The kind that affords family members the ability to “dabble” in things like medical practice, dentistry, practicing law, et cetera, as something more of an aside to keep them busy than a necessity to scratch out a living. The sense of contentment is most likely a combination of just enough alcohol to lubricate my don’t-give-a-shit and the soothing sound of water cascading into the pool from an elaborately landscaped waterfall. Hey, voice of reason, still think Yazooz!! was a bad idea??? Douche.

Dr. Wendy begged off for a bit to “clean up from work” although I can’t imagine her being anything other than clean. Her scent in the car was mesmerizing. Some mix of mild, clean smelling soap and expensive perfume, the fragrance made me want to drink the air around me.

After what seems an eternity, I hear the patio door slide and look up to see Dr. Wendy carrying a wide, beautiful smile and a large, silver platter covered in various cheeses and crackers. The platter looks like something from a television wedding. Fine cheeses I’m sure didn’t come from cellophane wrappers and crackers of all different grains and textures arranged perfectly around a mound of pate`. Garnished with several strawberries the size of plums and a couple bunches of plump, dark red grapes. Seriously? Do rich people just keep this shit layin’ around?

She has shed the business wear in favor of form-fitting, aqua yoga pants and a loose fitting, white V-neck top with intricately embroidered patterns around the neckline and sleeves. Exquisitely tailored workout apparel that will likely never see a drop of sweat. Hard to be certain, but I strongly suspect there is no bra underneath. Her thick, dark hair is still damp from the shower and pulled back in a pony-tail. With the exception of a subtle application of lipstick, her perfect olive skin is free of make-up.

In the shimmering blue light, I notice for the first time a hint of what might be Pacific Islander heritage in her delicate, high cheek-boned facial structure and in the slight almond shape of her sparkling eyes.

There is a slight breeze and the night air has the faintest hint of the coming fall. Still warm out, but comfortable and relaxing. Her scent is rich and clean on the breeze and I catch myself inhaling deeply to drink it in.

I stand as she approaches, “Need help with anything?”

“No. Sit. Just gonna go back in for the wine and I’ll be back in a flash,” the breeze ruffles her blouse and teases an unruly wisp of hair. Fuck. She looks like a model shooting the cover of a fitness magazine. I internally wink at my pouting voice of reason and flip him the bird.

Dr. Wendy smiles warmly before spinning on her bare heel and padding off to the kitchen for the wine. I get my first view of her round buttocks, hugged nicely by the yoga pants. The fabric squeezes each fleshy cheek and accentuates the crease between. Light from the pool accents her curves and hypnotic shadows dance across what is a perfect, turquoise replica of Dr. Wendy’s nude derrière. (Author’s note: To the man who invented yoga pants, thank you from the bottom of every male heart on the planet…you, sir, have earned your place in heaven.)

The patio door slides closed and I urgently adjust the angle of my brand new erection. Tammy who?

As advertised, Dr. Wendy returns in a flash, carrying the original bottle of wine, a back-up bottle just in case, and her glass. She gracefully folds herself into the chair closest to mine and fills both glasses with generous pours.

She leans back in her chair and silently regards me with a mischievous gaze. She’s sitting, childlike, with one leg tucked beneath her and the other bent at the knee, foot resting on the seat of her chair. Her smile suggests the presence of hesitant inquiry behind those twinkling eyes that, in this light, appear almost lacquer-black.

“What?” I ask when the moment has lasted a slightly uncomfortable length of time.

She shrugs sweetly but still says nothing. Just continues to smile like she knows some secret I’m not privy to.

Not knowing what else to do, I pick up a cracker and smear on a generous helping of pate`. I’m proud of myself for actually using the little, bent butter knife thingy instead of just dipping it like a ballpark nacho. Before thinking what I’m doing, though, I toss the entire cracker in my mouth and crunch happily until I realize I probably should have made at least three bites out of the tidbit…Oops.

“What do you think?” She’s still smiling.

“Purty good pait,” I use my best ignorant Texas hick accent and elongate the mispronunciation of pate`, “and a damn fine spread ya got here ma’am.” I tip an imaginary hat just for good measure.

Dr. Wendy giggles and continues to eye me like a new toy.

“Actually, it’s all very nice, thank you,” I smile warmly. “Even if it is a little intimidating for a broke country boy.”

Wendy rolls her eyes, “Psshhh…no need to be intimidated. It’s all just stuff. People are what really matter. I like you. You’re funny.”

“Well, Doc, I like you too…just remember it’s not ‘just stuff’ to people who don’t have and probably never will have much ‘stuff’…it’s a representation of what will never be.”

“Noted.” She smiles quietly again.

“Okay. You’re gonna have to tell me what you’re smiling about because it’s kinda startin’ to creep me out a little,” I lie. This girl couldn’t do creepy if she tried.

She playfully reaches out and slaps my arm. “I’m not creepy, you big jerk,” she pouts.

“Okay. You’re not creepy. Cute. Better than cute. Definitely not creepy…but you’d be a lot less creepy if you’d tell me what you’re smiling about,” I chuckle lightly, a little nervous from the sweet scrutiny.

“You’re pretty,” she takes a generous sip of wine.

I blush slightly. Never been called pretty before. Kinda weird, but a nice weird. It occurs to me that Dr. Wendy is slightly tipsy. I didn’t pick up on it at first because she is so proper, but now I see the misty relaxation of a nice buzz in her eyes.

“Thank you,” I try to play it off like gorgeous women call me ‘pretty’ three or four times a day, but I’m pretty sure she knows I’m squirming under the compliment.

I sample a grape and point to the tray, “You gonna dine with me Doctor Brandt, or did you bring all of this out here just for me?”

Her eyes sparkle and her smile beams pearly white brilliance as she elegantly unfolds herself from her chair and boldly straddles me in mine, “I would love to join you, sir.”

I can feel the warmth of her crotch radiate through the fabric of her thin yoga pants and the rough denim of my jeans. She smiles happily and searches my eyes for a reaction to her advance. Her firm buttocks rest nicely in my lap and I can feel her swaying almost imperceptibly side to side in nervous excitement. Dear Lady Luck, you sweet, sweet saint of a being, thank you so much for what I am about to receive…and this totally makes up for…uh…what’s-‘er-name…last night. Hugs n Kisses, Doll, Brett.

Wendy turns slightly to pluck a strawberry from the platter, then leans close and looks deeply into my eyes as she slowly brings it to her mouth. The fruit glistens in the shimmering light of the pool as she softly traces her lower lip seductively back and forth before parting her lips and allowing it to slide between her perfect, white teeth. Juice runs from the corner of her mouth as she bites through the moist flesh of the tart berry.

Straightening slightly, she begins to rock and rotate her hips, grinding her soft, warm crotch into mine while rolling the morsel of strawberry round and round her partially open mouth with her juice-stained tongue.

I’m literally trembling with desire. No, not figuratively, I mean my fucking legs and hands are shaking. My breath is caught in my chest and my cock is pressed so hard into the unforgiving denim of my jeans that I feel like I might actually whimper. I can feel every beat of my heart throb in my pants and with every excruciatingly slow rotation of her hips I’m afraid I’m going to cum. Or cry. The jeans hurt. I want desperately to reach down and adjust, but with all the propriety going on, I’m not sure of the etiquette here.

As if reading my mind, Wendy reaches down with her free hand and aligns my aching shaft with my zipper. She strokes my length appreciatively a couple times, then smiles warmly before inching forward to work her little crease against the rock hard bulge.

Her slit gliding along my cock, Wendy resumes the slow grind, milking sticky gobs of precum from my flexing manhood with every exaggerated stroke. Her eyes close slightly and her lips part to allow an inaudible whimper to slip free as her clit slides along the rough seam of my jeans. My hands explore her hips and thighs, gliding along the sheer fabric of the expensive yoga pants and enjoying the firm, toned flesh beneath.

She brings the strawberry to her mouth once more, again sensuously teasing her lips with the ragged, dripping wound in the flesh of the fruit. Taking a slightly larger bite this time, she leans close and rolls the severed bit from one side to the other with her soft, moist tongue. She brings the strawberry to my lips, glazing them with the bitter-sweet nectar, slowly side to side, teasing me.

I move to bite the plump berry, but she pulls it from my mouth momentarily, then returns it to my lips to slowly trace them with the wet, open end. I seductively part my lips and explore the opening with my tongue while gazing deeply into her soft, warm eyes. At least, I give seductively a shot…hard for guys to pull it off without Forrest Gumpin’ it all up…. I hope I at least manage sexy.

Wendy pushes what’s left of the strawberry partially into my mouth and covers the other half with hers. Our lips meet a split second before she bites into the berry and an explosion of sweet juice fills my mouth and runs down my chin. The tart taste of the strawberry mingles with Wendy’s own distinct flavor and combines with the tinny, metallic taste of new passion. Her tongue darts into my mouth, searching for a playmate. Our lips lock and our breathing becomes synced. My hands grasp her buttocks forcefully and grind her little crease hard against my miserable, needy cock. I can feel precum seeping from my flexing hardon, soaking through my jeans, and making a slick and sticky mess between us. Probably gonna ruin her expensive pants but I have a feeling she’s ok with it.

Wendy whimpers again and her legs lock under the chair seat to leverage her pussy harder against my cock. Her breathing quickens and her hips lunge forward and back, grinding her clit mercilessly against the rough seam of my zipper. Another, more pronounced whimper forces her to pull her lips from mine and take deep, steadying breaths before the first spasms of sweet orgasm grip her and release in rapid succession.

The second wave is much more intense than the first and Wendy shudders violently while cumming against the pulsing bulge in my jeans. Slippery fluids soak the crotch of her pants…slick, sticky precum on the outside and sweet, creamy girl nectar on the inside. Her hips convulse and release in a most sensual, rhythmic way.

I feel my cock flexing hard and spurting wet, sticky globs of cum inside my jeans. I try to fight it but the climax won’t be denied. Wendy must sense my resistance to the orgasm because she leans in, grinds hard, and whispers, “Let it go, baby. Let it go…cum for me.”

I moan my surrender and just let it happen. Wendy graciously works her sweet crease along my cock, milking it until my climax subsides. I can feel the sloppy, wet, sticky mess soaked inside and out of my jeans.

Wendy straightens, sheds her blouse (confirming my no bra suspicions) and smiles warmly at me while continuing to manipulate her hips. Her breasts are perfect, full B-cups with perky, dark brown, quarter-sized nipples. I take first one, then the other in my mouth, alternating between the two, to musical moans and gasping approval. A soft squelching sound can be heard from our sopping crotches working each other.

“We need to get you outta those wet jeans Mr. Delaney,” she purrs with seductive perfection.

She slides off my lap and onto her knees in front of me. She helps me out of my boots slowly, one at a time. This woman actually makes taking off a fucking pair of old cowboy boots sexy!! Her supple hands work the fly of my jeans and strip them to a heap on the concrete.

Topless and on her knees, Wendy grasps my half erect, still throbbing cock tenderly in both hands and begins to slowly stroke it while gazing wantonly into my eyes. Glazed with spent ejaculate, her hands are soon well lubricated and my cock stiffens, and stands glistening in the blue light shimmering off the pool.

Wendy leans in and samples the salty, sticky tip first with her tongue, then parted lips, finally opening her soft, warm mouth and allowing my cock to slide down her throat in slow, deep cycles. I’m almost immediately on the verge of climax again, but I somehow manage to hold back. Precum is again seeping, if not pumping, from my hypersensitive, engorged cock head. Wendy strokes the shaft with one hand and sucks gently to milk the nectar from my rigid tool. She is trying to make me cum again, but I won’t succumb. I want to fuck her. Need to fuck her.

I lift her to the table and peel the sopping yoga pants from her gorgeous thighs. “I love the way you look in these pants,” I whisper softly as they drop to the patio floor.

“I know…I caught you admiring the waitress’s shorts at the bar…that’s why I wore them tonight,” Wendy’s breath catches as my cock presses on the tender flesh of her passion-swollen lips. I pause for a brief moment, just pushing on the tight opening of her sweet, wet pussy, before plunging deep inside. I enter her slowly, but forcefully push to the very bottom depths of her on the first stroke. My pubic bone grinds into her clit while my cock strains to push deeper inside her slippery pink folds.

Wendy lets out a pained gasp and then begins to tremble through waves of warm, liquid pleasure washing through every nerve ending. Over and over she is gripped with electric ecstasy as I slowly grind my hard cock on her tender cervix . Her moans are sweet and soft, ultra-feminine. They coincide with each squeezing, elastic grip of her spasming internal muscles. Her eyes simultaneously beg for both mercy, and no quarter.

Just as the trembling in her thighs begins to subside, I spin her pleasure-pliant body around, bending her over the patio table to take her from behind.

“No, over here,” she breathlessly coos, leading me to a narrow lounge chair where she lays flat on her stomach and arches her ass high, “you can take me deeper this way.”

I press the head of my fully engorged, fully flexed cock against her open, needy cunt and push hard, fast and deep…ramming into her tender cervix to a delighted shriek of simultaneous pleasure and pain. I pull back very slowly, feeling and enjoying every inch of her tightly spasming pussy. Pause for just a brief moment, allowing her to anticipate the shooting pain and electric pleasure to come, before slamming my rigid tool hard into her sensitive slit once again.

Her ass arched up and twisting side to side, proper Dr. Wendy Brandt forces a breathy plea, “Fuck me hard and get off….use me…take it…”

My cock slams hard into her again. And again. Faster. Harder. Deeper. Until I feel hot, liquid release spewing into her battered cunt. Over and over my cock bucks inside her and spurts until wet, sticky cum trails down both thighs and up her belly, dripping on the lounge chair and collecting in small puddles.

A couple more violent thrusts with my spent cock just to enjoy her squeal, and I roll to the concrete patio floor and breathe heavily, desperate to catch my breath.

Wendy stands hesitantly on trembling legs. Thick streams of sticky, spent passion running down her thighs, she tests each step like a baby deer before working the numbness out and walking normally toward the house to fetch some dry clothes.

She returns to find me standing near the pool, gazing happily into the waterfall thinking of nothing in particular. “We better get you back to your car, Hun,” she leans her head on my chest and we share an embrace.

“I’m in no hurry. I could always cook you breakfast and then pick it up in the morning,” I look down into her dark eyes and find myself a little smitten.

“No, Babe, my husband is on the red eye from Houston and will be home a little before one….gives us about forty minutes to get you back to Yazooz!! and me back here in bed, alone, like a good little girl,” she shoots me an evil-sly wink and trots off into the house to find her keys and probably rinse the strange cock out of her throat before hubby gets home.

While getting back into in my cold, wet, sloppy, cum soaked jeans I desperately try to ignore my little voice of reason. Who, by the way, is strutting around like a retard with a new bouncy ball. Fucking gloating. I told you so…I told you so… He’s such an irritating motherfucker.

My second ride in a Mercedes Benz is markedly more awkward than the first. I’m glad to see my ol’ pal the Yazooz!! sign. Wendy turns the car into the lot and I nearly didn’t notice the headlights flash across the back of a new, shiny, black Yukon with dealer tags still en tow. Almost. That fuckin’ bitch. She’s here.

Dr. Wendy and I share an awkward goodbye in which she writes her number on the back of one of her husband’s business cards and tells me to call her on Mondays or Thursdays. I toss the card in the dust of the parking lot as I watch the Mercedes’ tail lights disappear down University. Dear Lady Luck, Fuck. Married? Really?

Back on task. The mission: Get my fucking Jeep fixed. Secondary mission: find a plausible explanation for all of this in which Tammy didn’t really try to fuck me over and we fuck happily ever after. Voice of reason, I don’t wanna hear a FUCKIN’ peep outta you!!

I walk through the door and my eyes have to adjust to the dim light. And my ears have to adjust to crappy, shit-box computer-generated hip-hop music playing. I scan the crowd for Tammy, but it’s difficult to focus. Flashing lights, screaming patrons and blaring music creates an unpleasant sensory overload that immediately produces the beginnings of an aggravating headache.

The place is packed. Rubbing room only. Wall to wall college kids bucking and gyrating to this shit like it’s real music…. poor lost souls.

I casually troll the outer edges of the dance floor, but see no familiar faces. Better just hit the bar. I’ll sit and sip a beer ‘til she shows up there. She’s bound to get thirsty sooner or later.

As I make my way through the crowd to the bar I catch a glimpse of her. Behind the bar. Serving drinks. I’ll be damned. Bitch works here.

Intentionally avoiding her line of sight until it’s my turn to order, I step up to the bar just as she’s digging in the ice machine, preparing some co-ed’s inhibition-numbing treat.

“What can I getcha, Sweetie?” Tammy blasts over the incessant drone.

“Hunger-Buster with cheese and two Dilly Bars,” I hope she recognizes the items are from the Dairy Queen menu.

She does. Her gaze snaps to me and her eyes betray her fake smile. Definitely not happy to see me.

“Hey Brett, didn’t expect to see you tonight,” she’s nervously finishing the co-ed’s peach-panty-raid or whatever she ordered while eying me up and down looking for clues as to whether I’m violent.

“Betcha didn’t. Wanna take a break and have a talk?”

“Sure,” she tosses her apron behind the bar and motions me to follow her.

Hey, Voice of reason, looks like the night wasn’t a waste after all, Dickhead.

Oh, and Dear Lady Luck, I’m gonna need a little help on this one…

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

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