Live Love Rewind: The Three Lives of Leah Preston (16 page)

“Fuck me,” she begged.

He slid himself inward, filling her, and she gasped. Supporting himself on his muscular arms, he rocked forward. His large dick thrust into her, stroking her, slowly at first and then faster, deeper, as she wrapped herself around him. Her pleasure built as he plunged into her, harder still, the strokes controlled and sure until a long, pleasured moan escaped her lips. Losing all control, she cried out and then he did, too, his arms trembling. He fell beside her on the table, his sex still in her, and he pulled her close.

Her breasts pressed against his chest as he kissed her a second time. “Now you know why I like darts,” he said, smiling.

“You’ve done this before?”

“Never like this,” he said, his hand cupped possessively over her breast. “But I can’t wait to do it again.”

“Soon?”

“Tonight. That is, if you’ll come over to my place.”

Chapter Thirteen

“I pour my heart out to you, and you want to send me a book?” Mary Ellen said.

“The Art of Whore.”

“The what of what?”

“You can’t judge a book by its title.”

“This one I can.”

“The book has a terrible title,” Leah said into the phone. “It was written hundreds of years ago. Maybe the word meant something different back then.”

“I think it meant the same thing it does now,” Mary Ellen told her, sounding offended. “I teach Sunday school. You think I’ll be some man’s call girl?”

“A lady in public, a whore in the bedroom. They say that’s what every guy wants.”

“I wouldn’t know.” 

Give up the attitude, Mary Ellen Brewer
, Leah thought.
You’ve been divorced twice. You know your way around a bedroom.

You just don’t know your way around a man.
She said, “We have to make this quick. I have a visitor coming over.”

“Maybe she’d like your book.”

“It’s not a her, it’s a him. Ian should be here in a few minutes.”

“Ian? Ian Parkins?” The cold tone dissolved in surprise. “Your teacher?”

“My new boyfriend. He’s the reason I’ve been so busy lately. Why I haven’t had a chance to call.”

After a moment of silence, Mary Ellen said, “Stop kidding.”

“He’s been here every day for the last two weeks. My next door neighbor says it’s obvious he’s crazy about me.”

Mary Ellen cleared her throat. “Exactly how crazy?”

“He’s staying in the States to be with me. He says the British Isles can wait.”

“
How did this happen?
”

“The book, hon. I studied the book.” Leah flipped through the pages. Toward the back, she reread another of Sun Zu’s sayings:

The rise of tomorrow’s sun is not

certain. The light of tonight’s moon

is promised to no one. Only today is

real. Only now exists. Love as if

there may be no tomorrow.

– Sun Zu,
The Art of Whore

“I guess I could try the first chapter,” Mary Ellen said.

Outside, a car horn honked. Leah told her, “I have to go.”

“Ian’s taking me to the County Courthouse. As things turned out, the staff at the Olive Garden wasn’t very receptive to Astrid and Josh’s new hobby. Astrid asked if we’d come over to bail them out.”

“Send me the…the thing,” she said. “Overnight it. I’ll pay the charge.”

The call disconnected.

About to close the book, Leah noticed another page at the very end of the volume.

That’s weird.

She’d read through the book so often, she was certain she could recite some of the passages by heart. She knew she couldn’t have missed anything.

Outside, the car horn honked for a second time. If she didn’t hurry, Ian would come to the back door. In his polite but sometimes snippy way, he’d tease her about the delay.

Turning the page over, she found a new message written on the inside face of the tome:

He’ll love you as long as you’re his

toy. Dressing to tease him,

dressing to please him.

End the game and he’ll say goodbye.

But play by the rules and he’ll play, too.

Then, at the bottom of the note –

Is this what you want?

“Sun Zu didn’t write this.” Although the paper and printing were identical with what she’d read in the past, this phraseology didn’t match with anything else in the work. It didn’t belong.

Still, this felt like a message directed toward her. Something she needed to know and evaluate.

“Rules?” she questioned out loud. “Whose rules?”

But she already knew. Ian’s rules, to satisfy Ian’s desires. Ian’s kinks.

Staring at the words in front of her, Leah reflected on how she was dressed. Looking as if she’d stepped out of a 1940s pin-up poster, she knew the professor would love what he saw. Her ankles ached and her feet hurt but she’d viewed her sacrifice as being for the greater good.

After they completed their chore at the courthouse, they’d return to her place. When they did, they’d screw for hours. Ian was a wonderful lover.

She could tell he’d had a lot of practice.

To please him, Leah would have to redo her make-up at least twice between lovemaking sessions. He’d want her to keep the pumps on in between orgasms.

That’s the game, I guess,
she thought.
The Art of Whore.

Which is okay for this weekend – and next month and maybe even next year – but for the rest of my life?

When I’m 75? When I’m 80?

Well before then, I’m going to want to wear my comfy clothes. Even now, changing into jeans and an oversized shirt sounds like heaven. I own three dozen hooker heels but I have a few pairs of sneakers, too.

I wonder if Astrid is as pleased with her life as she pretends.

The kitchen door knob rattled. From the back porch, she heard Ian say, “Leah, the door is locked.”

“I forgot.”

“Love, the car’s at the curb, air-conditioning running. It’s so damned humid here.” His accent was somehow less charming when detached from its speaker. “Might you move a little faster, dear? Petrol comes dear these days.”

“I need some time to think.”

“What?”

“Give me a minute,” she told him, more loudly.

“Are you dressing?” Ian asked. “It takes hours when you change. I don’t know what it is about women.”

It’s not entirely my fault,
Leah thought.
Give me five minutes and I can be in a t-shirt and shorts.

Are you happy?
a voice asked inside her head.

Hearing the question intrude inside her thoughts, she staggered. Suddenly, she remembered everything. Her experience at Area 72 returned to her in a rush.

Reeling under its impact, her legs buckled. Catching the top rail of a kitchen chair, she pulled herself onto its seat.

Ian’s voice grew husky. “Are you wearing those panties I brought you from the specialty store? The ones that taste like chocolate?”

“Those aren’t panties. They’re bad candy.”

“So much fun.”

“Just…be quiet, all right?” She wondered to herself,
So am I happy?

I just told Mary Ellen I was. She thinks I’m ecstatic.

And I guess I mostly was, just minutes ago. I thought this was what I wanted.

“Speak a bit louder,” Ian said from outside. “I can’t hear you.”

Live like this for the rest of my life?
Leah kicked her shoes from her feet.
I don’t think so. It might have been better if Astrid had never told me about that book in the first place.

But she had her doubts. If she’d never followed the Art of Whore, she’d have remained at her word processor, alone and lonely.

The door knob jiggled with more urgency.

She told the voice,
This isn’t right, either. I won’t spend the rest of my days being someone’s Barbie.

Why don’t you start over?

I just tried that, remember? It didn’t work.

Feeling as if she was too weary to rise from the kitchen chair, she called out, “Go home, Ian.”

“Home?”

“I’m not who you want. You’re not who I want, either.”

“Do tell.”

“You’re not my true love.”

He snorted happily. “Is this a new game? The innocent princess and the white knight?  Yes, let’s do that one.”

Let’s not, Professor Parkins,
she thought.
You’re as messed up as I am. Probably worse.

“Should we start over?” Ian asked, his voice dropping into a sexy growl.

“No.” Apparently, she reflected, everyone wanted her to start over. Because, clearly, she’d failed at life the first time.

And, now, a second chance had gone awry.

I don’t think starting over is the answer
,
Ian,
she realized
. Not for the two of us and not for me alone, either.

How could anyone get their life right when they don’t know where they went wrong the first time?

“After the courthouse, I thought we’d try something different.” Ian tapped against the door again. “I’ve left a little present in the glove box. Ben Wa Balls. They’re brilliant, simply brilliant.”

“Go away!” Leah shouted.  A hushed silence followed.

Attempting to stand, deciding she needed to confront the artist without a doorway between them, she discovered her legs wouldn’t support her. The chair’s seat was hard and unwelcoming as she fell back onto it.

“But – Ben Wa Balls,” Ian said from outside. He sounded confused.

Wanting to respond, Leah found herself yawning, instead. The weariness that had been present earlier returned in force. Lowering her head to the surface of the kitchen table, she closed her eyes and surrendered to the blackness.

Part Three:

Sex Love and Ever After

Chapter One

“When we were at the club,” Mary Ellen Brewer said, “all she had was a glass of cola.”

“Do you think she was roofied?” Astrid asked.

Leah opened her eyes. She was in the front passenger seat of a parked car. There was a crumpled fast food wrapper flattened beneath one of her feet.

In the driver’s side position, Mary Ellen watched her with bright curiosity. From the rear seat, Astrid Iversen leaned forward to study her.

“Did somebody slip you a roofie, Leah?” Astrid asked, with interest. “I’ll bet someone did.”

Mary Ellen said, “The tall, skinny guy who kept coming over to our table, that’s who. The one with the shaggy mustache.”

“What’s it like?” Astrid asked. “Do you have a headache? What do you remember?”

Leah’s memory felt exceptionally vivid. Sitting very still, she remembered everything that had happened to her, including her visit to Area 72. Like pieces from different jigsaw puzzles, events unfolded before her until she forced them from her conscious mind. Concentrating fiercely, she forced herself to examine only the here and now.

Which caused her to wonder,
Exactly where is here and when is now?

Mary Ellen and Astrid were both years younger than when she’d last seen them. Astrid had short, ash blonde hair and a piercing in the side of her nose. Her loose top and skirt didn’t completely hide the skinny frame inside the outfit.

Mary Ellen was all curves, from her large breasts to a rounded stomach that had been imprisoned inside of a tight blue Lycra top.  Her hair was curled, the unfortunate hairstyle accenting the circular shape of her face.

“Never get your hair permed again,” Leah told her.

“You said you liked it.” Mary Ellen’s hand went to her head.

“Leah doesn’t know what she’s saying,” Astrid reassured her. “She’s been roofied.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying.”

“You were the one who told me to get my hair permed. You took me to the salon!”

“What year is it?” Leah asked.

Astrid nodded sagely. “What did I tell you?”

“I haven’t been roofied.”

“Then what? You were just sitting there and you suddenly went out.”

“Maybe it was a stroke,” Mary Ellen offered hopefully.

Leah reached for the window visor. She examined herself in the mirror, admiring the unlined face and neck that greeted her. She was less pleased with the plunging, skin tight outfit that extended below her neck. “I’m dressed like a hooker.”