TITLE    : What the Facel is a Fucking Vega?
STORYID  : what-the-facel-is-a-fucking-vega
SUMMARY  : Or, I was lucky to take it in the rear.
AUTHOR   : Ephesus14@lit
DATE     : 2019-04-12
CATEGORY : adult-romance
FLAGS    : h
TAGS     : |love story|drama|


WARNING:



This is not a BTB story. Nobody cheats and no spouses are shared. There is very little sex.



My thanks once again to sbrooks103x.



 <strong>What the Facel is a fucking Vega? </strong>... Or I was lucky to take it in the rear!



I don't know a Ford from a Nissan without looking at the nameplate, so when the ugly blue car rear ended my Wrangler while I was stopped at a traffic light, I had no idea what kind of car it was; nor did I care.



After I was hit, the other driver stayed in her car and I walked back to her. She was on the phone. The first thing I noticed was her perfume. The next thing were her eyes. They were green. I'd never seen anybody with green eyes before. From what I was able to hear, she was telling someone, her husband, I assumed, about the accident. She didn't appear interested in ending her call so I called 911.



A police officer arrived very quickly and the other driver got out of her car. She was about my age, had blonde hair, and was, by any standard, beautiful. The officer took our drivers licenses, registrations, and insurance documents and started filling out his report. He gave me copies of her insurance information and vice versa, but she and I had no conversation at all. My car was drivable so he asked me to move it off to the side. Her ugly little blue thing was not drivable so he called a tow truck.



The tow truck arrived and started to pull her car up onto its bed, when I heard a yell.



"Stop! Stop!



A man about my father's age ran up to the tow truck driver and yelled. "Don't do anything. Leave it alone. Leave it alone."



The officer approached the man. "Sir. You have to step back and let him do his job."



Just then 'green eyes' walked up to the man. "I'm sorry, Daddy."



He looked at her. "Are you okay?"



"Yes, daddy; I'm sorry."



"It's all right, sweetie. It's just a car." Then to the tow truck driver. "I said leave it alone. Do you know what you are doing?"



It's just a car? He wasn't acting like it was just a car.



"Sir, we have to clear the intersection. Let him do his job." Repeated the officer.



"He has no idea how to handle that car. We have to wait for my garage. They'll take care of it."



"We're not waiting for anything. We're towing it now."



"But that's a 1958 Facel Vega FV4 Typhoon. They only made 36 of them. It has to be handled carefully."



"I don't care what it is. It's blocking traffic and has to be moved." The officer turned to the tow truck driver. "Get it out of here." Then he said to the man. "Sir come with me."



He took the man's arm and led him away. Green eyes followed.



The man turned to the officer. "Anyone hurt?"



"No sir."



"Where's the other driver?"



"That would be me." I responded.



"Are you hurt?"



"Nope. Just pissed."



"You're pissed? It could take months to get replacement parts for that car ... if they're even available." He looked agonized as his 'one of only 36' was dragged up the bed of the tow truck.



I looked at him and spoke. "Forget your car. Thanks to your daughter, or who, or whatever she is, I've missed an interview for a job and there aren't that many jobs available for guys like me. It will probably take me just as long to get another interview as it will take for you to get parts for that ugly car."



He completely missed my comment about green eyes being his daughter, or who, or whatever she was, "Ugly? You think it's ugly? That's a work of art." He said indignantly.



"Art? Well, there's no accounting for taste I guess, but I missed my interview so I'm still unemployed."



"What do you do?"



"I'm an architect."



"An architect?" He looked me up and down. "Are you any good?"



"You bet I am."



"Then why don't you have a job?"



"It's a long story, but the short version is my mother had a stroke and I came to Houston to look after her."



"I'm sorry about your mother and I'm sorry you missed your appointment. Look, here's my card." He took a card out of his pocket, wrote something on the back of it, then handed it to me. I looked at it. The name J. Paul Tarver was printed on the front. There was nothing else. I turned it over and read what he had written on the back. 'If this guy is any good, maybe you can use him.' "Take it to Marty Cummins at Bradburg and Cummins. Maybe he can help you." Then he looked at the tow truck and ran over to it yelling. "Make sure it won't fall off!"



I had tried several times to get an interview with Bradburg and Cummins, but had not been able to.



For the first time green eyes spoke to me. "I'm sorry. I wasn't paying attention." How could anyone stay upset looking into eyes like those I asked myself?



I tried to figure out what to say. First her father, who I initially took to be a perfect ass, did something nice and then she apologized. I was taken aback, but I snapped out of it when her father spoke. "I hope you're insured."



I looked at him then pointed to 'green eyes'. "She's the one who better be insured. It was her fault."



"That will be determined by the investigating officer." He said.



Just then the officer approached us and spoke. "The investigating officer has made his determination." He handed me back my registration, license, and proof of insurance. He did the same to 'green eyes' only he included a citation for her. "Have a nice day." He said as he walked to his patrol car. I headed back to my Wrangler and watched as the ugly blue, one of only 36 in the world, 1958 Facel Vega FV4 Typhoon rolled down the street on the back of a common Chevrolet rollback tow truck.



I decided to not try and reschedule my missed interview but, instead, would call Bradburg and Cummins. So I went home. Well, it wasn't exactly my home. It belonged to my father. My mother had suffered a stroke seven months before and he asked me if I would come and help him take care of her. She managed to live four months.



Dad was having a bad time dealing with her passing so I decided to stay pretty close to him. I made the permanent move to Houston to be with him. I put my house in Pennsylvania up for sale and asked my best friend, Barry, if he would arrange to have my furniture put in storage.



First thing the next morning, I made the call. "Bradburg and Cummins, how may I direct your call?" Said a voice that could give a eunuch a hardon.



"Good morning. My name is Ryan Prescott. I'd like an appointment to see Marty Cummins, please."



"And what would the appointment with Mr. MARTIN Cummins be about, Mr. Prescott?"



Ooops. She made it obvious that calling him Marty, like Mr. Tarver did, was not a good idea. "I'd like to talk to him about a job."



"I'm sorry, but we are not accepting employment applications at this time."



"I understand but," I looked at the name on the card in my hand. "J. Paul Tarver suggested I see him."



"One moment, please." Almost instantly another voice, almost as nice as the first one, said. "Martin Cummins' office."



"My name is Ryan Prescott and Mr. J. Paul Tarver suggested I meet with Mr. Cummins."



"Of course Mr. Prescott. Would 1:00 this afternoon work for you?"



"That would be perfect. Thank you."



Apparently, J. Paul Tarver packed a little weight with Bradburg and Cummins.



At exactly 1:00, I was ushered into the office of Martin Cummins. He rose, walked around his desk and shook my hand warmly. "Welcome, Ryan. Is it okay if I call you Ryan?"



"Of course."



He led me over to a table and motioned for me to sit. He sat beside me. "Mr. Tarver told me how you met and that you might call. It's too bad you had to meet him under those circumstances, but, of course, the greater tragedy is the stroke your mother had. How is she?"



So I told him.



"I'm sorry. You have my deepest sympathy."



"Thank you."



"He tells me you are an architect and I see that you have a portfolio. May I see some of your work?"



"Certainly."



It didn't seem like an interview; it was more like a conversation about my work and me. An hour or so into that conversation and after many questions about my drawings, he excused himself and left the office. He came back with his assistant, who carried coffee and cookies. They were followed by Dennis Bradburg, who carried his own cup of coffee. He sat on the other side of me.



Two hours later, I had a job with the most prestigious architectural firm in Houston, Texas. Martin Cummings and I were left alone in his office. I was putting my drawings back into my case when he asked. "Is your car okay?"



"Yes, it is. Unfortunately, Mr. Tarver's daughter's car isn't."



He laughed. "It isn't her car. It's his. Hers is in the shop being repaired from another accident so he, reluctantly, I might add, loaned her the Facel. Do you know anything about cars, Ryan?"



"Good lord, no. I would be hard pressed to change a flat tire."



"Just so you know, Mr. Tarver said that if we hired you, we were to give you the use of a company car until yours was repaired if you needed it." He smiled at the look on my face. "Get used to it. He is a very warm and generous man as long as you don't fuck with his family, cars, or companies, in that order."



I chuckled. "Maybe his daughter should be driving a company car."



He laughed. "Not when she can drive one of his; and she gets to make him a nervous wreck in the process."



His use of the word fuck took me aback. I don't quite know why, but it did. He noticed and smiled again. "Get used to that as well. All of us use a little salty language around here and if you don't; you will."



I started work the following Monday. I had my own office and shared an assistant with another architect.



Being rear-ended might be the best thing that ever happened to me.



I had met the whole staff of course and was impressed by all of them. When I met the body attached to the voice I heard the first time I called, I was surprised. Her name was Connie and she was about five feet tall ... and almost that tall sideways. When she wasn't answering the phone she was reading one of dozens of books on dieting she had on and around her desk.



About two weeks into my tenure, I looked up from a drawing I was reviewing to see green eyes standing in my doorway.



I stood. "Well, hello." I said trying to remember her name from the accident documents; but couldn't. I just remembered her beauty and her green eyes. "I'd like to thank you for hitting me."



She smiled. "Daddy said the same thing. Apparently he and everybody else is happy you're here."



"Why would it make him happy?"



"Didn't Marty tell you? Daddy owns half of the joint."



"Now it makes sense." I paused. "Would you like to sit down?"



"Not this time. I just stopped by to pick Robert up for lunch."



"Robert?"



"Robert Sparks. But everybody calls him Bobby."



Bobby Sparks was a good-looking hunk of a guy who, I had begun to suspect, was screwing every female in the company ... including the rotund receptionist. "Let me ask you a question."



"Okay."



"Everybody calls Robert, Bobby, except you and nobody calls Mr. Cummins Marty except, apparently, you and your father. Why is that?"



She laughed. Dad and I call him Marty because we can and it irritates him and Dad has fun irritating him. And I can call Bobby anything I want to because he wants to get in my panties."



Now I laughed. Then, totally out of character for me, I asked. "Has he been there before?"



She laughed even harder, ignored the question, and said, "Ciao." She waved goodbye as she left.



Holy smokes, I thought. Where did that come from? Never in a million years would I have asked any woman that question ... but especially not the boss's daughter.



On my way to lunch, I stopped by the receptionist's desk. "Connie," I asked, "what is Mr. Tarver's daughter's name?" It, of course, was on the paper the policeman had given me, but that was at home.



"Christine."



I thanked her and left.



Another two weeks went by. J. Paul Tarver stopped by a couple of times and we chatted briefly. I asked him about his Facel Vega and he was immediately irritated.



"Those sons of bitches are thieves. You won't believe how much they are charging to fix that ugly thing."



"I thought you said it was a work of art."



He laughed. The Tarver family seemed to do that a lot. "It's only art when it is fixed and running. When it's broken like it is now, it's an ugly piece of shit; but it is a rare and valuable ugly piece of shit."



Now I laughed. Just then, Mr. Cummins came and took him away.



It was around then that I realized that not only had I not been laid in months, but I hadn't even been on a date. I knocked on Bobby's door. He looked up.



"Got a minute?" I asked.



"Sure. Come in and sit." I asked him if there was a watering hole he would recommend where I could meet a young lady for drinks and a couple of dances.



"Is that all you want?"



"For now."



"There's a place not far from here called 'the Obit'. It's really the Orbit, but a couple of years ago the 'r' in their sign died and it's been called 'Obit' since. Lots of professional types, male and female, go there for drinks after work. Give it a try."



"Thanks, Bobby."



Two nights later, I walked into the Obit. Nice place. Live music and not the loud jukebox stuff I expected. And there was a nice ratio of men to women.



I'm not much of a drinker, but as I looked around I saw lots of people, again, both male and female, holding beer bottles; I joined them. It was a pleasant evening. I met a couple of young ladies, danced a few dances, had a couple of beers and went home.



I was there a few times over the next two weeks. There were a couple of women who seemed to be possibilities for future antics.



It was a Friday evening and I had just gotten my beer when I felt a tap on my shoulder at the same time I smelled her perfume. I turned and saw those beautiful green eyes.



"Good evening." She said.



"Oh, hi, Christine." I said.



"Here alone?"



"So far."



She started to say something else, but was interrupted. "Excuse me, but our table is ready." Said the tall guy in jeans, cowboy boots, and Stetson hat. I looked at his pale, untanned skin and almost laughed. Pretend cowboys, I'd discovered, were a dime a dozen in Houston. But pretend or not he was with the prettiest woman in the place and I was drinking alone so he must have something going for him.



"If you'll excuse me." She said as she grabbed his arm and walked off with him.



Gorgeous looks, beautiful eyes, and a perfect ass I thought as I watched her walk away. I wondered if he had ever been in her panties. I tilted the bottle to my lips and gulped down half of what was left. I watched that perfect ass until the crowd filled in around her. I was still looking in her direction when I felt another tap on my shoulder.



I turned and looked at what was another very attractive woman. She said. "You keep chugging like that and you'll be face down on the floor."



"And my relative position is important to you, why?" I asked with a smile.



"Because I think it would be difficult to have a conversation with you if you're face down."



I chuckled. "An interesting visual just popped into my mind, but I'd better let it go."



She smiled. "You probably should. My name is Cameron, but my friends call me Cam."



"I'm Ryan. May I buy you a drink or are you here with someone else?"



"Actually, I'm here with several people, but they won't miss me for a few minutes."



The few minutes became hours as Cam and I closed the Obit that night. And the next.



I was in my office on Monday morning when Christine knocked on my door and stuck her head in.



"Good morning, Ryan."



"Good morning."



"Did you have fun Friday night?"



"Sure did. Saturday, too. How about you?"



"I always have fun." Then she paused for what seemed like a long time. "She looked nice."



"Who did?"



"The girl you were with."



"Oh, I can assure you she was anything but nice ... in fact she was very naughty."



"Did you get in her panties?" She asked with a grin.



I looked at her, laughed, and said, "Ciao." Then went back to work.



She chuckled. "By the way, Daddy and Marty would like to see you in Marty's office."



"Thank you."



My meeting with them lasted two hours. When it was over, I was on my way out of the building for a very late lunch. Christine and Bobby were just coming in. Must be nice to be dating the boss's daughter and I wondered if that was all he was doing. She smiled and waved. I did likewise.



Another couple of weeks went by. By now, I had my own bar stool at Obit's when Cam wasn't there. When she was, we either snuggled in a booth or went to her apartment. I wasn't having much success leaving my parents' house. Dad was still in the grieving process so I couldn't move out and into a place of my own.



I had seen Christine at the Obit on more than one occasion. Never with the same guy, and each time I saw her I took an instant dislike to her date.



My family was originally from Pennsylvania, but about ten years ago, my father's company sent him to Houston. Over the years, I would visit them and vice versa, but I never spent any real time there until my mother had her stroke. I was taken by the beauty of Texas women, and have actually come to take it for granted. Cam was the first Texan I had ever fucked and oh my god, could she fuck. She liked all positions, but missionary was her favorite. She liked doggy as well, but much preferred looking into the face of her partner as they fucked.



"I love to see their expressions as they work trying to get me off, but it's even better as I watch them get close themselves as I work to get them off. I really love fucking!"



"I can tell," I said one evening while I was on top of her pounding away. Hers was the first shaved pussy I had ever seen up close and personal. I spent a lot of time inspecting it. And tasting it. And tongue fucking it. She enjoyed experiencing my curiosity.



I really liked the time Cam and I spent together, but we both knew our relationship was not a 'forever' one. After three months of sex at every opportunity we said our good byes.



She and I had spent many enjoyable evenings at the Obit. On some of those evenings, Christine was there with a date. She and I would occasionally chat briefly when we ran into each other. She always wore the same perfume and every time she was anywhere near me, I could smell her. I loved that smell.



She would also show up around the office once in a while; usually to pick up Bobby. She would spend time, either before they left or after they returned, in my office. I looked forward to her visits.



My first night back at the Obit without Cam was interesting. I had several people offer to buy me drinks. I took the last offer. It came from Connie, the rather rotund receptionist at Bradburg and Cummins and her date. I had seen them there before. She saw me sitting at the bar by myself and came over.



"Hi Ryan. Where's Cam?"



"She's over there with Karl." Krazy Karl was a radio personality almost everybody seemed to know and love. He had a popular morning show and a lot of his evenings were spent at the Obit.



"What happened with you two? Or shouldn't I ask?"



"It was just time."



"Now maybe you'll find time for Christine."



"I don't think so. The only time she comes around is to pick up Bobby. We talk occasionally."



"Well, she certainly talks about you. What are you drinking?"



"A beer if you're buying." Connie and I talked for a long time while her date just sat and polished off a couple of beers. Most of our talk was about the Tarver's. I knew that Bradburg and Cummins was just one of several companies Tarver was involved with. He would stop in occasionally just to see what was going on. Nobody ever had anything bad to say about him. He was both kind and generous to the people around him; and he gave some very nice bonuses at Christmas.



I also learned from her that Christine and Bobby were not dating. Christine's older sister, Marlene, was confined to a wheelchair as the result of being struck by a car while crossing a street. She was divorced and living with her young daughter. She had recently ordered a specially equipped van, but until it arrived, Bobby would go to Marlene's house or, if Christine was in the area, she would pick him up and take him there. Bobby was working with her to modify her house to accommodate her wheel chair lifestyle.

<hr pg="2" />Maybe she wasn't dating Bobby, but she was dating ... the pseudo cowboy, or the lawyer type, or one of the other guys I had seen her at the Obit with. She didn't seem to have anyone special or a particular type but I found myself, for no reason, being jealous of whoever she was with and wondered if she was sleeping with any, or some, or all, of them.



During our conversations, neither she nor I had given any indication that we had any desire to see each other socially and I had heard over the years that you shouldn't play around 'too close to the flagpole.' In other words, don't mess with other employees or the boss's daughter.



That didn't keep me from thinking about what it would be like to spend time with her, however.



One Wednesday morning, the company learned that they had won the design for Houston's latest office building. The Tarver Construction Company was going to build it.



There was a celebration at the main offices of Tarver Construction and we were all invited. I had a glass of champagne in my hand and was listening to J. Paul Tarver tell about how he drove his Mercedes Benz 300SL Gullwing onto the 18<sup>th</sup> Green of one of the most famous golf courses in America.



I stood, listened, and laughed at the appropriate places. Then I smelled her. She was standing beside me and her perfume filled my nostrils.



She grabbed my arm and led me away while the others surrounding her father were laughing at another of his stories.



"May I buy you a drink?"



"Sure."



"Okay. Let's go." She started for the door.



"Whoa there. I can't leave."



She stopped trying to drag me out. "Spoilsport." We went back in and her father saw me. "Ryan, Ryan, come over here."



The crowd parted and allowed me access to him. He put his arm around my shoulder and led me away. "This is the biggest deal I've ever had, Ryan. I've worked on it for a long time and it has to go without a hitch. Effective today, this is the only project you have. You live and breathe this building. Got it?"



"Yes, sir."



"Now this is probably the last easy day you're going to have for the next couple of years, so relax and enjoy it." He patted my back and went back to his group.



He hadn't gone far when I smelled her again. "You've done your duty. Can we leave now?"



What had my boss just told me? That I should enjoy the day? The most beautiful woman in a whole state of beautiful women had just asked me to leave with her. The whole 'not too close to the flagpole' thing disappeared from my mind completely. The green eyes, perfect ass, and intoxicating aroma ... not to mention the flat out, drop dead, beauty of this woman, had me.



In the parking garage, I started toward my car, but she grabbed my hand and led me toward the reserved parking area and her car. Well, actually, it wasn't her car. It was another of her father's cars. This one, she told me, was one of his favorites. A 1959 Alfa Romeo 2000. She climbed behind the wheel and we headed out.



"Where are we going?" I asked.



"How about the Obit? We both like it there and their hamburgers are pretty good."



"Let's go."



I'm not much of a drinker and up until I first walked into the Obit and saw 'the natives' drinking beer from the bottles, my drink of choice was gin and tonic. Two beers became my limit. I drank even less that evening because I spent most of my time enjoying Christine's company.



It was midnight before I remembered that I had to be at work the next morning. I reminded Christine of that little fact and asked her if she could drop me off so I could pick up my car.



When we got there, I started to get out. She touched my arm, pulled me to her, leaned in and we kissed. Softly and gently. Once.



"Thank you," we both said at the same time.



I was in the shower less than an hour later and it dawned on me that not one time during the course of the evening had I given any thought to having sex with her. I had too much fun talking, listening, and just generally enjoying her company.



I liked her.



The next day every time I heard someone in the hall I looked up from the plan I was studying. Okay, studying may be too strong of a word; let's just say the plan I had on my drawing board at the time.



I kept hoping it was her in the hall.



Just before lunch on Thursday, I called her.



"Hello, Ryan. What's up?"



"I was wondering if maybe you wanted to go back to the Obit for a drink or two tomorrow night."



"I'm sorry, Ryan, but I have plans."



"Oh. Okay. How about Saturday?"



"Uh."



"Never mind."



"Why don't you give me a call next week."



"Yeah ... sure." I hung up. Well, there goes my balloon. She burst that bastard wide open. She's too involved to spend any real time with me.



On Friday, I was sitting on my regular stool at the bar when I smelled her float by. I looked and she had just walked by holding the hand of the pseudo-cowboy.



A wave of jealousy struck me, but left quickly. It occurred to me that having spent one evening with her did not give me exclusive rights. I returned to my beer.



On either side of me sat gentlemen with whom I had been discussing ...uh ... we had been discussing ... shit! What had we been discussing?



"God, what a smell." Said the one on my left.



"It's always the same with her, isn't it?" added the one on my right. Christine's pseudo-cowboy was handsome, but his skin was as white as a sheet like he had never been outside in the sun, his boots looked new and polished, and his Stetson also looked new. The guy on my right, on the other hand, looked like a real working cowboy. Tanned, leather tough skin, worn jeans and boots, and an old Stetson that looked like it had seen more than one rodeo. "Always with the dudes and phonies. But good god almighty, she's a looker, and, you're right, she sure smells good. I've been coming in here off and on for a couple of years and it seems like she goes through men like shit through a goose."



As happens in bar discussions, Christine was forgotten as the three of us went on to discuss and solve all of the world's problems. I had just ordered my fourth, which was a record, beer and the three of us had just saved the endangered African northern white rhino from extinction when 'the smell' was back. Both of my companions stopped talking as we all took deep breaths at the same time. Then she spoke.



"Hi, Ryan."



I spun on my stool to face her. So did my two companions. She stood there alone. "Evening." I looked around. "Where's your date?"



"He had to make a stop. I was just talking to my father. We are having a little get together at the house on Saturday afternoon and he would like you to come."



"Give him my regrets, please."



"Of course. Well, here's Michael." She said as her cowboy approached. "It was good to see you. Good night."



All three of us took another deep breath as they walked away. We all held that breath trying to retain the aroma. Finally, together, we exhaled and took long drinks of our beers.



"You know her?" They asked together.



"I work for her father." I replied.



"Uh, I don't mean to be nosy, but why aren't you going to her daddy's party?"



"I have no idea. It just seemed like the thing to say at the time."



"I know why," said the other man. "She said 'WE are having a party' and then said 'HE would like for you to come.'"



"You might be right. That plus the fact that she has too many men for me. Too much competition. I don't need that kind of hassle," I said as I took another drink. The next hour was spent debating the pros and cons of socializing with the boss and dating his (or her) daughter. We barroom philosophers are pretty smart; at least when we have a few beers in us.



I spent Friday evening at the Obit. I danced a lot and almost got drunk. My Saturday was spent recovering from Friday night. My Sunday was spent trying to figure out my feelings for Christine. We had spent one, really, enjoyable evening together. That was it. We'd shared one kiss. A very nice kiss to be sure and I felt something. But all those men! I have no idea how many of them she had slept with ... it was none of my business ...but still ... so many different men; she had to have slept with a lot of them. Didn't she? The thought occurred to me that if we got serious about each other, I would hate to be out sometime in the future, meet some guy she had dated before, and have him say, "Yeah, I dated her. I even fucked her a few times ... so did thirty, or forty, or fifty other guys I know."



I don't know if I'm capable of enough love to live with that. I was beginning to recognize some serious insecurity problems in myself.



Monday morning I had a meeting with Dennis Bradburg, the principal architect for the new building. The meeting lasted all week, and the next. We were together 12 hours a day, six days a week. We took Sundays off. After two weeks of constant discussion and consultation, he declared that we both needed some time off. It was ordained that we should take Saturday, Sunday, Monday and Tuesday off.



I hadn't seen Christine and I hadn't been to the Obit in that time.



My father was doing much better and had even started giving some of my mother's things away. A huge step for him. My house in Pennsylvania had sold and I was considering moving into my own place.



I had a nice weekend.



Around noon on Monday, my phone rang. "Hello."



"Hi, Ryan. It's Christine. How are you?"



"Fine. And you?"



"Fine." There was a pause. "You've been busy the last couple of weeks."



"Uh, yeah, I have."



"How's it coming?"



"Pretty good. Dennis has designed a nice building. He will be proud of it."



"Dennis?" She laughed. "It seems you've arrived if you call him by his first name. Not many people do."



I chuckled. "Yeah, maybe I have." Another pause. "What can I do for you?"



"I went by your office and they told me you were off so I was wondering if you might like to have lunch ... or something."



"I don't think so, Christine, but thanks for asking."



"How about tomorrow?"



"I won't be able to, but thank you, again."



Pause. "Well." It was her turn to chuckle. "One date. That was probably the shortest relationship I've ever had."



"Me, too. Thanks for calling. I'll see you around."



I ended the call and just looked at my phone. I had just told every man's dream woman that I didn't want to go out with her. I spent the rest of the day debating myself; and I lost ...



Tuesday afternoon, I called Cam.



"Hello, stranger." She said.



"Hi. Would you be interested in some afternoon delight?"



She laughed. "What's wrong, Ryan?"



I leveled with her.



"Is this the one I saw you with a few weeks ago at Obit's?"



"It must be. You and she are the only two I've seen since I've been here." Which wasn't really true. I had danced with a few others before I met Cam; but it was close enough.



"Wow. You need to get out more."



"So what about it? Interested?'



"Sorry, Ryan. I'm seeing someone and I really like him."



"I'm happy for you, Cam."



"Thank you. Listen, if you're desperate, I know someone who might be available."



I laughed. "No, thank you. Not today ... but I might take you up on it if things don't change soon."



We chatted for a couple of minutes and hung up.



Around five in the afternoon, I went to my father. "Dad, how about we go out to dinner?"



We had done that on occasion, so it wasn't a shock. "Sure. Let's go."



We were in my mother's Toyota Avalon and I had just opened the garage door and had started to back out of the garage. I looked and a familiar ugly little blue car pulled into the driveway. "Who's that?" my father asked.



"Christine."



"Oh. OH! I'll wait in the house." He got out of the car and went back inside.



I got out and went to her. She sat there.



"What's up?" I asked.



"I don't know," she responded not looking at me.



"So the Facel is fixed." I said, stating the obvious.



"Yeah." Still not looking at me.



"And your father let you drive it again?"



"She half laughed. "I'm spoiled. He gives me anything I want."



"Don't you have your own car?"



"Yes, but I really like driving daddy's. It makes him nervous, but he lets me."



Pause



"What do you want, Christine?"



"Can we talk?"



"Okay. Would you like to come in?"



"Can we walk?"



"Sure." I opened her door and she turned in her seat to get out. As she slid out, her skirt rode up her legs and I couldn't help but look at them. We started down the driveway and up the street before she spoke.



"Did you really have plans for yesterday or today or were you just blowing me off?"



"I was blowing you off."



We walked in silence.



"The night we went out was one of the best times I have had," she said.



"Me too. But I have two problems. The first is I have always heard that dating the boss's daughter was a bad idea. She gets pissed at you or you at her and the next thing you know you're either fired or you quit. And, second, you seem to date a lot of guys and I have no intention of being on a long list of men you threw away."



"The men I've dated have nothing to do with my relationship with you; just like the women you've dated have nothing to do with me."



"They shouldn't ... but they do. Does that make me a hypocrite? Probably. I've had two serious long-term relationships in my life and I've dated eight other women. I've slept with four of them. That's over a period of years. I've seen you with at least five different men in the last couple of months alone and a lot of conclusions could be drawn from that."



"What conclusion have you drawn? That I'm a slut?"



"The truth?



"Yes, please."



"The truth is that I've concluded that I'm afraid of you. I'm afraid I'll get serious and fall in love. I'm afraid that you've slept with a lot of men and that I will be reminded of that every time I see you talk to another man or another man talks to you. I'm afraid that you will find me inadequate compared to any of the men you've had. I'm afraid that I will be sneered at for dating the boss's daughter to advance myself. I'm afraid that every time I see one of the guys you've dated that he will look at me and know that he was with you first." God, I thought to myself. You really are insecure.



By this time she had stopped walking and just stared at me. "Jesus, Ryan. You've really thought about this, haven't you? Maybe I should thank you for blowing me off." There was more than a bit of sarcasm in her last remark.



"Maybe you should. Come on, I'll walk you back to your car."



Neither of us said a word on the walk back. I opened the door for her, she got in, and drove off and still no word was spoken.



Dinner with my father was a miserable experience. I was not good company.



The next week was also miserable. My body was in my office, but my heart and mind were elsewhere. At noon on Thursday, I'd had enough. I was working with Both Dennis Bradburg and Martin Cummins on the new building. I stopped and leaned back in my chair. Dennis looked at me and spoke. "Okay, Ryan, out with it. What's wrong? You've been here all week, but your mind is somewhere else."



"I'm thinking about giving you my notice and going back to Pennsylvania." Both men were speechless for a long time.



Then Dennis looked at Mr. Cummins first, then at me. "Mind telling us why?"



"Of course not. Being hit by Christine Tarver was both the best thing that could happen to me, and the worst. The best, of course, was this job."



"And the worst?" Asked Mr. Cummins.



"Christine Tarver."



"God damn it. I knew it. I fucking knew it." Said Dennis very calmly and slowly.



"I told you." Mr. Cummins said to him.



"You told him what?" I asked Mr. Cummins.



"We've known her most of her life. Her father loaned us the money to start up. He's been our partner since. We've seen her men come and go over the years and knew this would happen someday. We knew that we would get someone who was worth a shit and she would ruin him. Up till now we've been lucky. But now it's happened. She has her hooks in you and both of us, this company and you, are being fucked without getting laid."



"Ryan." Said Dennis. "Why don't you take the rest of today and tomorrow off and talk to us on Monday. Needless to say, we don't want you to leave for a couple of purely selfish reasons. First, from what we have seen you show a lot of promise; second, you know more about the Spenser (which was the name of the new building) than anyone but me and we would prefer not to have to train someone else."



So I left. I was just pulling in to Obit's parking lot when my phone rang. "Hello."



"Ryan, This is Paul Tarver. I'd like to talk with you. When would be a good time?"



"Uh, I'm just getting ready to grab a sandwich for lunch."



"Good. I'll join you. Where are you."



"Obit's on Gordon."



"Okay. See you in five minutes. Do they have Reuben's there?"



"Yes, sir."



"Good. Order me one and a beer."



I had ordered our food when he sat in my booth almost 15 minutes later. "Okay, what's going on?"



I assumed, of course, that either Dennis or Mr. Cummins would call him, but I had no idea that it would be that quickly or that he would react so fast ... if at all. I also assumed that they would have told him my reason, so there was no sense in my trying to tell him anything but the truth. "I don't know if I love your daughter or hate her. I haven't known her long enough to do either, but she's driving me crazy ... maybe I should say she's driven me crazy. I spent the best evening of my life with her and now I'm considering giving up the best job I've ever had. That's not the action of a sane man. I watch her walking, talking, sitting, standing, drinking, or dancing with another man and I get so jealous I can't stand it. That's not rational. I've never held her hand, only kissed her once, never danced with her or even held her but that's all I want to do. I'm telling you, Mr. Tarver, there's something seriously wrong with me so you don't want me near your billion dollar building."



When I finished, I looked up to see our server holding our food in her hands. She was staring at me with her mouth wide open. She came out of her trance long enough to set our food on the table and speak. "God, I wish my boyfriend talked like that."



Mr. Tarver and I both looked at her. She walked away.



"Bullshit, Ryan. You're no different than half the men in Texas. Most men who see her want to jump in bed with her." My eyes went wide open when I heard her own father talk like that. "Don't look at me like that. It's the truth. I know it. You know it. And believe me, she knows it. I've lived with it since she was a girl. You have no idea how many times I've stayed up waiting for her to come home wanting to shoot the asshole she was with."



He chuckled and picked up half of his Reuben and took a bite. I did likewise with my brisket sandwich. We ate in silence for a couple of minutes. He looked around. "Nice place. Early afternoon and it's pretty busy. I wonder if it's for sale?"



I took a sip of my beer.



"Is this where you young people hang out?" I nodded. "Does Christine come here?" I nodded again. "Often?" I shrugged. "She hasn't this week though." I shrugged again. "That's not a question. It's a comment. She's been at home every night for over a week. Her mother and I kept thinking there was something she wanted to tell us but was afraid to." He leaned as far across the table as he could and motioned for me to come closer. "At first we thought she was going to tell us she was pregnant. That would have killed her mother. But it wasn't that. Her mother overheard her talking to her sister. She has a sister. Did you know that?" Again I nodded. "Anyway, her mother heard enough of her side of the conversation to deduce that she was having 'man' trouble."



"What kind of man trouble? Did Texas run out of them?" I immediately regretted saying it and started to apologize, but J. Paul Tarver started laughing. "I don't know why I'm laughing. That's my daughter you're talking about."

<hr pg="3" />"I'm sorry. I had no right to say that, but she drives me crazy."



"Don't worry about it. I'm her father and she does the same thing to me." He took another bite, chewed then swallowed it and washed it down with a big gulp of beer. Then he spoke. "Listen, Ryan. I want you on the Spenser project. What is it going to take? Money? My first born? No, that won't work. You already hate her ... or love her ... or something. And, actually, she's my second born anyway."



"I honestly don't know."



"Okay. Here's an idea. Talk to Dennis and find out what he thinks is going to be our biggest headache on Spenser. Then take those plans to my place in Belize. Spend a couple of weeks going over them and getting Christine out of your head. When you come back, I will forbid her from going anywhere near you. How's that sound?"



I chuckled a bit. "I would love to go to Belize, but any work I do has to be done with Dennis."



"Okay, I'll send him too. He needs a break, anyway."



"Why not just send Christine?"



He looked at me, took out his phone and punched a button. "Hi, sweetie. Whatcha doin'?"



There was a pause while the other person spoke. Then he continued. "Listen. Your mother and I have been thinking. The pool in Belize needs to be drained and repainted. Why don't you pop down there and take care of it for us? Jose could get it done, all you have to do is keep an eye on things. You could take your sister and niece if you want ... or if they want." A long pause while he took bites of his Reuben, sipped on his beer, and rolled his eyes as he listened to the other person, who I now assumed was Christine. "I know, sweetheart. I've told you for years that men are assholes."



On it went for a several more minutes. I obviously didn't know what she was saying, but he was trying his best to console her. Then I saw his eyes get big and he looked at me. No, not looked, he glared. After he hung up, he continued to glare at me. "My daughter is crying. She hasn't cried since she was fifteen. And apparently, you're the reason."



"What? Why am I the reason?"



He leaned closer to me. "What does 'blow up' mean?"



"I beg your pardon?"



"She said you blew her up. What does that mean?"



"It isn't blow up, it's blow off. Last week she called and asked me if I wanted to go out. I turned her down. I didn't have a good reason, other than she drives me crazy and I'm jealous of her other men. So I blew her off."



He seemed to relax somewhat. "Oh. I thought it meant something else. That's not so bad. As a matter of fact, it's almost funny. I don't think she's ever had anybody turn her down before. Listen, Ryan. Get your ass to the office on Monday and keep working on Spenser. I'll keep Christine away from you and I'll try to convince her to stay away from here." He indicated our surroundings. "If necessary, I'll buy the place and bar her from coming in. Besides, if I know my daughter she'll have some other guy with a ring in his nose in no time."



He saw me wince when he said that. "Jesus fucking Christ, Ryan."



"You have no idea. Other than the one evening we went out, I haven't spent much time with her. I know nothing about her other than she dates a lot of guys, likes to drive your cars, and is spoiled. I don't know her favorite color, her favorite food, favorite dress, best subject in school ... none of that shit ... but she is on my mind constantly and I can't control it ... and it pisses me off that I can't!"



"I love my daughter, Ryan, never doubt that and if it ever comes down to you or her, your ass is toast. But I hate to see a good man go. Houston is a big city with lots of women so I suggest you find yourself one that trips your trigger. Hell, I might even be able to dig up one or two for you myself. I will try to keep Christine away, but Spenser is going to take a couple of years to build and I won't be able to keep you two separated that long. So get that 'give my notice' crap out of your mind and get to work. Do we understand each other?"



"But ..."



"No 'buts' goddamn it. She's a woman. Prettier than most and dumber than some ... otherwise she wouldn't be crying over some 'feeling sorry for himself slob' who doesn't know whether to scratch his watch or wind his butt. So you can either wallow in your own self-pity and run back East with your tail between your legs or you can help me build this building. Now, I have more important shit to do than nursemaid you and my daughter. You can pay the check. See you at the office on Monday."



With that he stood, downed the last of his beer and left. I finished my sandwich and my own beer, paid the check, left and went back to work. I had a building to build.



The next few months went smoothly. We broke ground on Spenser, finished it's foundation, and started building above ground level. I had neither seen nor heard from Christine. I did hear that her sister Marlene had taken delivery of her specially equipped van and all the modifications she needed in her house were completed.



Cam had broken up with Mr. Right and we were fuck buddies again. About once a week, sometimes more frequently, she and I would try to fuck each other's brains out. We spent our share of time at the Obit and on those nights she had a date we would just wave to each other. I had even moved out of my parent's house and into an apartment. But most importantly, the pool in Belize had been drained, painted and refilled.



I was a pretty happy camper.



Then the bottom fell out.



J. Paul Tarver came into my office on a Monday morning and closed the door. "I need your help, Ryan."



"Of course."



"I want you to call Christine and take her out."



I just stared at him for at least ... well, it was a long fucking time. Then I spoke. "Fire me. Shoot me. Cut off my balls. But don't ask me to do that. I'm just getting back to normal, or whatever passed for MY normal, so don't ask that."



"Ryan, I'm desperate. She's been seeing some dude with no teeth. He wears jeans which look like they haven't been washed in years and I can see oil dripping out of his long assed pigtail."



"Mr. Tarver. Please don't ask ...."



"He has grease under his fingernails, Ryan. He doesn't wear socks and you can see his dirty ankles."



"Mr. Tarver, I just ..."



"Ryan, I'm desperate. What do you want? A partnership in the firm? My Alfa? They're both yours if you do this for me."



I looked at him. His hangdog look would have made Attila the Hun do anything he asked. Fuck! I stood and looked out the window for a long time. After a couple of minutes, I felt him standing beside me. I turned and looked at him. The hangdog look was still there. Goddamn it!



"Okay. When do I call her and what do I say?"



"Oh, God, Ryan. You'll never regret it." He acted like he was going to hug me.



"Too late. I do already. What do I say?"



"I don't care. Tell her your dog died and you need a shoulder to cry on. Tell her you're dying! I don't give a shit. Just get her away from that greasy sleezeball and DON'T tell her I told you about him or told you to call. She has to think it was your idea."



"I want you to know that I'm doing this to save my job. Period."



"Aw, come on, Ryan. I wouldn't fire you if you didn't ... okay, maybe I would. Just call her. Soon. Oh, you'll need her new number." He wrote it on the back of one of his cards. And with that he left. I kept looking out over Houston. Call Christine? I'd rather ... My thought was interrupted when my door opened and J. Paul Tarver stuck his head in and boomed, "Thank you, Ryan!" Then he was gone.



I sat down and for an hour tried to figure out what I was going to say. I really didn't want to open this can of worms. Then it dawned on me that I might not have to say anything. Maybe she won't even speak to me. That would work; I would call her, she would refuse to speak to me and I would have done what Mr. Tarver asked me to do.



After putting it off as long as I could, I picked up the office phone and dialed. It rang. No answer. It rang again. Still no answer. Third ring ... my luck was holding. Maybe she had a heart attack and couldn't get to the phone ... or some other stroke of luck for me. Fourth ring. I held my breath. "Hi, This is Christine. I'm unable to come to the phone, but if you leave your name and number, I'll get back to you."



I inhaled deeply. "Uh, Christine, this is Ryan Prescott. I was ... I was ... just wondering if maybe you would like to have a drink. Or something. If you can't, it's okay. Bye."



'If you can't, it's okay?' What kind of weak-assed shit is that? God, what a schmuck.



I was still berating myself when my phone rang. "Ryan Prescott."



"Hi Ryan. It's Christine."



"Uh, hi. How have you been?"



"Not too bad. You?"



"Not bad."



For Pete's sake, Ryan, get it over with. "Christine, would you like to have a drink ... or something this evening?"



Her response was immediate. "I would love to. What time?"



"Seven at the Obit?"



"Seven is fine, but I'm not allowed in the Obit."



"Why not?"



"Daddy paid the owner to bar me. We can go to Andy's on Westheimer, if that's okay."



"Sure. See you there at seven."



After we ended our call, I discovered that my shirt was soaking wet and my imagination was filled with her perfume.



How can any one person have the effect on another that she had on me? It took me months to get her out of my system and in one phone call I was a wreck. I left for the day and went home.



I walked into Andy's. She was standing in the lobby. I took a sharp, deep breath and tried to smile. Her smile looked just as strained as mine.



"Hi," she said softly.



"Hi," I said just as softly. We stood looking at each other.



"Table or booth?"



"What?" I asked.



The hostess asked again. "Table or booth?"



"Booth ... I guess." I answered still staring at those beautiful green eyes.



We were led to a booth where we sat facing each other. The hostess was prattling on about who our server would be, or some such tripe. We just looked at each other. We hadn't spoken other than the feeble "Hi's" in the lobby.



Apparently, our server had been hovering over us, watching us looking at each other before finally clearing her throat and asking what we wanted. She asked twice. We both said beer.



"What kind?"



"Who cares? Just bring something." She left.



I finally shook my head and broke out of my trance. What a ridiculous way for two adults to act. "How've you been?" I managed to get out.



"Not bad." Was her feeble response.



Things got better from there. We slowly relaxed, sipped our beers, and talked about everything but the two of us. By ten, we were laughing and joking. By eleven, we both realized that we should call it a day. By midnight, I was in my apartment trying to remember why her having so many boyfriends was so bad. We had made no other plans to talk or meet.



I had been in my office less than five minutes the next morning when my phone rang.



"Ryan Prescott."



"Ryan," the voice boomed. "You're a fucking genius. I don't know what you did, but it worked. She talked and laughed until three this morning ... we couldn't shut her up. Keep up the good work, my boy." I could hear J. Paul Tarver laughing as he ended the call.



I spent the day thinking about her and all of her boyfriends and found myself back to where I was months ago. The thought of her with all of those guys still drove me fucking crazy. How many guys had she had? Fifty? A hundred? Two hundred? The night before, I went to sleep convinced that it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was what happens when she and I were together. Last night it didn't matter; but in the cold light of day ... I wasn't sure. Did the number of women I slept with matter? To me it didn't. Should it matter to her? Again, it shouldn't. But the fact that I had slept with so few and she, so many ....? So am I a hypocrite? I would say so.



Christine didn't call me that day as I half expected her to ... until just before close of business. "Ryan Prescott."



"Hi. It's Christine."



"Hi."



"I had fun last night. Thank you."



"So did I," I said genuinely.



"Any possibility we could do it again?"



It didn't take me long to answer. "Yeah. I'd like to, but what about your boyfriend?"



"What boyfriend?"



"Your current guy."



"There is no current guy."



"No?"



"Absolutely."



"Then how about tonight?"



"Same time, same place?"



"Same time, different place. The Obit."



"I told you I can't ..."



"Trust me. They'll let you in." There is no current guy? That's what she just told me. Someone isn't telling the truth.



This time I was waiting for her when she walked in. Nobody challenged us as we found a booth. It was another nice evening ... except for the lie, either she or her father was telling, hanging over us. I tried a couple of times to bring up a boyfriend, but as time went on, it again, became less and less important.



The rest of the week was more of the same; as was the following week. Our evenings were spent together and most enjoyable. One night during the first week, I kissed her. Really kissed her. And when she kissed me back I couldn't have cared less how many boyfriends she'd had.



One Saturday morning found me at The Spenser build site. Both Dennis and Mr. Tarver were there. We spent the whole morning conferring. Around noon, Dennis had to leave. He was still in earshot when Mr. Tarver started. "Ryan, I want to thank you again for what you've done for Christine. Damn, man, she's a different person."



"Tell me more about her sleezeball boyfriend."



"There's nothing more to tell."



"There's always the truth."



"What do you mean?"



"I think you know, Mr. Tarver."



"All I know is my daughter is happy for the first time in months. She's her old self; she sings, she jokes, she laughs. But most of all she acts alive. If an imagination and a little lie were all it took to help accomplish that, I'd do it every day. But it wasn't the lie that did it. It was you. She cares for you. My only mistake was not lying months ago. I saw her pain, but didn't help her because I was more concerned about money. When I finally realized that, it took me a long time to figure out how to fix it; and the fix was easy. Get the man who caused her depression to cure it. So I lied."



"That's fine for you and her, but I'm not fine. I'm still going fucking crazy. One minute I can't stand her, the next, I can't wait to be with her. One minute I don't care how many men she has dated, the next I'm jealous of all of them. I can't live like this. I know it's immature and childish, but that's the way it is."



"I can't help you there. All I can tell you is that she cares about you."



"Yeah, but I bet she cared about every one of half the men in Texas she's slept with."



I knew as soon as I said it that I had gone too far. His face got red and he clutched his fists. I thought he was going to attack me. In that instant, I realized that if someone said that to me about my daughter, either he or I would had been carried out of there by the handles by six of our best friends ... so I had to give him credit for restraining himself.



He spoke coldly and slowly. "I told you that if it ever came down to you or my daughter, your ass would be toast; and it is. You're fired." He got into the car he had chosen to drive that day and left. I followed immediately. I went to the office, took all of my personal stuff, left my keys on the desk and walked out.



Soon after that at my father's house, I told him what happened. "You can't do that to people, Ryan. You have no way of knowing how many men she has slept with and it's no concern of yours, anyway. That is grossly unfair. You owe both of them an apology. And if you can't deal with her past, the two of you have no future."



He was right and I knew it.



He and I spent the rest of the weekend going through my mother's clothes. He was donating all of them; except for her wedding gown and the pajamas she was wearing when she died. It was her Alpha and Omega, he said.



Bright and early Monday morning my phone rang. "Hello." I answered.



"All right. What happened?" asked Martin Cummins.



"I basically called his daughter a whore."



"Good God, Ryan. Are you fucking crazy?"



"Yes, I am. And she made me this way."



"Listen. Stay put and lay low for a couple of days. Let him cool off. Savvy?"



"Yes, sir."



"Good. Goddamnit, I knew she was trouble."



Nothing happened that week so I started making plans to go back to Pennsylvania. Getting out of my lease was going to cost a fortune.



Friday night I was at the Obit. I was sitting at the bar nursing my third beer of the night when I smelled her. I looked around but didn't see her. A few minutes later, I smelled her again. Stronger this time. I spun on my barstool and there she was. Staring at me.



"Half the men in Texas, huh? If you only knew." And she started away.



"Wait." I almost yelled as I started after her. She stopped and turned back to me. I went to her and reached for her hand. She jerked it away. "I had no call to say that and I sincerely apologize. I offer no excuse other than to say that you drive me crazy. I've never been jealous in my life but the thought of you with someone else sends me into idiot mode. I can't help it and I can't control it. I hope you can forgive me for thinking it much less saying it."



"You don't own me, you know."



"I know that."



"I can do anything or anyone I want."



"I know that, too."



"Anytime and anywhere I want." I didn't say anything. There was a pause. "Daddy said he fired you."



"He did. If I remember correctly, I told you that's what happens when you mess with the boss's daughter."



"Only if you're stupid." We just looked at each other before she continued. "What are you going to do now?"



"Go back to Pennsylvania."



"When?"



"Probably Monday or Tuesday." I turned to go back to my barstool, but she touched my arm stopping me.



"Why didn't you just ask me about the men, Ryan?"



"I guess I didn't want to know how many there were."



She looked at me and shook her head. "The hardest thing about this is you gave me no credit. You automatically assumed the worst. That's the part that hurts the most. Good bye, Ryan."



And she walked away leaving her perfume in the air. She was right. I thought the worst from the very beginning.



I never returned to my barstool. I went to my apartment, packed my clothes, and loaded my car. I had breakfast with my father; told him I would arrange to get rid of the rest of the stuff in my apartment, got in my car and headed east.



That was Saturday morning. I drove 24 hours straight and on Sunday, I rang my best friend Barry's doorbell. I had called him to let him know I was coming so his wife, Jennette, wasn't surprised when she opened the door. I spent the next three hours telling them my tale of woe.



I never got any sympathy. What I did get was a comment from Jennette. "You're an asshole."



I fell asleep on their living room sofa. I awoke at seven in the evening and we ate dinner. We chatted until midnight then I was back on the sofa asleep. I stayed asleep until nine thirty the next morning when my phone rang. Half asleep, I answered it. "Hello."



"Goddammit Ryan, you did it again."



I recognized the voice of J. Paul Tarver. "What are you talking about?"



"Every time you get near my daughter, you make her cry."



"Now wait a minute. The last time I saw her was Friday evening at the Obit and she started talking to me. Up until then I was minding my own business. Besides, she shouldn't have been there. If I remember correctly, you paid the owner to keep her out. I know I can't control her, but you're her father; you should be able to. So stay off of my ass." And I ended the call.



It rang almost immediately. It was him again. I was pissed and he was no longer my boss, so I answered it. "I told you to stay off of my ass."

<hr pg="4" />"Wait a minute, Goddammit, just wait a minute. Jesus Christ. I just want to talk. She told me you apologized. Thank you for that. She also told me you were leaving. Before you do, have lunch with me and let's chat."



"Too late. I'm in Pennsylvania."



"Why did you leave so soon?"



"Why? You fired me and I hate your daughter."



"Okay, I did fire you; but you don't hate my daughter. You just don't know how to handle her."



"Yeah, right. Like you do?"



He chuckled. "Yeah, Point well taken. Listen, get back here and help me finish Spenser. I'll keep her away from you ... and vice versa.



"No, thank you. The state of Texas isn't big enough for us."



"Why not? We never had any trouble. Up until you said those things about my daughter and you pissed me off."



"I'm talking about Christine and me."



"Oh. Well, listen. There might be a problem with the transition on the 12<sup>th</sup> floor. Dennis said you can fix it. At least let me send you some drawings to look at. You can bill me ... reasonably, of course."



I thought for a while. I really liked working on Spenser. "I suppose."



"Good, what's your address?"



"I don't have one. I'm staying with a friend until I get settled."



"Fine. What's his ... or is it her ... address?"



"His." And I gave it to him. There was no more chitchat. I ended the call.



I received the drawings two days later, made some notes, and sent them back. It went that way for the next month. Them sending me drawings, me making notes, and sending them back; but it was costing them. I was almost working full time on Spenser ... but I wasn't really reasonable with my 'consulting fees.' After all, I had my new apartment to pay for.



One day I received a set of drawings. I studied them and 'ran some figures' before feeling like I needed to call Dennis and talk to him personally.



"Bradburg and Cummins, how may I direct your call?"



"Hello, Connie, this is Ryan Presc ..."



"Ryan, how are you? Where are you? We miss you."



"I miss you, too. Is Dennis available?"



"Certainly. Take care of yourself and come see us."



His phone rang. "Dennis Bradburg." He answered and we talked for almost an hour before deciding that it would be best if I flew out and physically went to Spenser and looked at it. I was on an airplane the next day. I called my father and told him I was coming. When I got there, Dad picked me up and took me directly to Spenser. It was like going home.



I was hoping to finish in one day, but it didn't work out that way. I spent the night with my father. The next morning, Dennis, Mr. Tarver, Martin Cummins, and I were at Spenser early. We bounced between the construction trailer, where I had been fired, and the actual problem area on the building I was there to discuss. Mr. Tarver mentioned neither my firing nor Christine.



I had been there three days and it was Friday so I decided to stop in to Obit. I was in a quandary. Should I mention it to Mr. Tarver so maybe he could influence Christine to stay away? Fuck it. I wasn't going to let her control my life ... or so I thought.



I sat there chatting with a couple of barroom buddies and found myself on pins and needles. Wanting to smell her presence but at the same time dreading it.



What a way to live, I thought. Afraid I was going to run into her and afraid I wasn't. This sucks. I went back to my father's house.



As we solved one problem another appeared. I had been there almost a week and was in the trailer with Dennis and Martin talking over a change the owners wanted. "We need new drawings on this." Said Dennis. "Ryan, could you take care of that?"



There was some basic drafting equipment in the trailer, but I needed more. "I don't have my stuff here."



"Go back to the office and use mine."



An hour later, I was sitting at his drawing board. I spent the rest of that day and the next morning making new drawings. I made copies then called Dennis at the job site and told him I was on my way back.



I was almost at the site when my phone rang. It was Dennis. "Listen, uh, why don't you get some lunch before you come?"



"That's okay. I 'm here now."



Then I heard him say "Oh, shit!" more to himself than to me as I turned onto the property and I saw him outside the trailer standing beside the Facel Vega and I knew instantly why he suggested I get lunch before coming. He saw me and ran up. "Give me the drawings and go to lunch. Call me before you come back."



I started to hand them to him, but took them back. "This is bullshit," I said as I got out and walked to the trailer. When I got there, I opened the door and walked in. Her back was to me and she was talking to her father and Martin. She had apparently just said something funny because they were all laughing. Hers sounded real, but theirs sounded more than a bit forced. Dennis entered right behind me. When she heard the door close, she turned. We looked at each other. God, I loved her eyes.



"Here are the new drawings," I said to nobody in particular as I held them up.



Dennis grabbed them out of my hand. "Good. Let's go over them. Christine, if you'll excuse us, we have work to do."



She and I stood there looking at each other.



"Yeah, sweetie," Said her father as he grabbed her arm and tried to rush her to the door. "I'll see you at home later." He opened the door and literally pushed her out. Martin took the drawings, spread them out on the table and started talking about them. Before long, Christine was forgotten.



It was late evening by the time we finished. Mr. Tarver headed home while the remaining three of us headed for a steakhouse and dinner.



Halfway through dinner Martin spoke. "What do you think about coming back to Houston, Ryan?"



"I've enjoyed it so far."



"No, I mean come back permanently."



"I'm not sure about that. Mr. Tarver seems to be okay with it for now, but what happens if I piss him off again?"



"He has been talking about asking you. He realizes the position you are both in and he has suggested that we come up with some sort of contract which would protect you just in case he gets pissed again. The other option is we keep you as an exclusive consultant and do what we have been doing. You live in Pennsylvania and we keep sending you stuff."



"Let's keep it that way." I said. Spenser became the sole topic of conversation for the rest of the evening.



I was in Houston another week before we all felt comfortable enough for me to leave. Christine was never mentioned and I never saw her.



I went back to Houston two months later for another two weeks. Some of my evenings were spent on my favorite bar stool at Obit. I saw Cam a couple of times. She had a new 'forever love'. I wished her well.



It was my third trip back to Houston. I walked into my father's house after work one evening and found him lying on the floor, unconscious. I called 911 and he was transported to hospital. It ended up being a minor heart attack. I spent the night at the hospital with him.



The next morning I called Dennis Bradford and told him what had happened.



I was sitting with my father an hour later when the door to his room started opening slowly and I saw J. Paul Tarver's head poke around the door and into the room. "Are you okay?" he whispered.



"Yes, come in come in."



"How is he?"



"He'll be okay. Thank you." He stayed for over an hour and we talked about a lot of things. When he left he told me wanted me to consider coming back to Houston. "I'll pick up any moving expenses you have. Take this week and think about it. I overreacted when I fired you before. Besides, your father needs you here." And he left.



I spent a lot of time in the hospital over the next three days. When my father was able to talk, I told him that I was moving back to be with him. He grinned and told me I was not too bright. "I will get well, Ryan, and I'll be okay. But you ... until you finally decide what you are going to do about Christine, both your body and your mind will be as crippled as I am now."



All night I thought about what he said. He was right of course; I had to do something. Around noon the next day, I made a phone call.



"Hello."



"This is Ryan. Can we talk?"



"Of course. When and where?"



"Obit. When can you be there?"



"An hour?"



"See you then."



It took an hour and fifteen minutes, but he was late the last time we met there as well.



"What's up?" he asked.



"I'm going to call your daughter."



"Okay. Why are you telling me?"



"Because I will more than likely do or say something that will piss you off again."



"And I will more than likely fire you again if the cause of your pissing me off is what you have to say about my daughter."



"That's what I thought. So why don't I take a raincheck on the job offer. That way I don't work for you and will feel freer about what I say. We'll continue like we have been."



"Fair enough. But if you hurt her, your ass won't be worth a plug nickel."



"Just so we understand each other."



"We do."



He left. I went out to my mother's car, which is what I was driving, took out my phone and made the call.



"Hello, Ryan."



"How did you know ... of course ... caller ID."



"Yes. What do you want?"



"Would you meet and talk with me?"



"Why? So you can call me a slut in person?"



"You didn't deserve that and I apologize ... again."



"What do you want to talk about?"



"You and me."



"What about you and me?"



"Can we talk about it in person?"



A long pause. "All right, Ryan. Be at my house in an hour." She gave me the address.



"Okay."



Exactly one hour later, I turned into the longest driveway I had ever seen. It took five more minutes to get to the house. I parked directly in front of the house, got out, and walked up seven steps to the front porch and door. I rang the bell.



"May I help you?" If this was Christine's mother, I knew where she got her looks.



"My name is Ryan Prescott. I'm here to see Christine."



"Come in, Mr. Prescott." I entered into a huge area which could only be described as a foyer. I stood and waited. It was about two minutes later when Christine appeared. She was different. No perfume. No makeup. Ordinary dress. She certainly wasn't trying to impress me and she was still the most beautiful woman in Texas.



"Come in, Ryan." I followed her to a seating area of some sort. Not one of the major rooms. She sat and indicated I should do the same. I shook my head no. "Well?"



"Well, what?"



"You said you wanted to talk."



"Yes."



"Okay. Talk."



"I have no idea what to say."



She stood. "In that case. Good afternoon. You can see yourself out." She started out.



"Wait. Give me a minute. I knew what I wanted to say until I saw you. I wanted to try to explain how I feel and then I see you and I look in those eyes, and I get so ... so ..."



"So what, Ryan?"



"I don't fucking know!" I almost shouted. "I don't know if I want to beat your brains out or fuck them out. I don't know if I never want to see you again or if I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I don't know if I want to grab you right now and hold you so tightly that you'll never get away or if I want to run screaming away from you."



All of a sudden I was exhausted. I literally fell into a chair. We just looked at each other for what seemed like a very long time.



"Well, that certainly clears things up, doesn't it?" She said finally. Then added. "Would you like something to drink?"



"What I would like is to go to sleep and wake up with a clear mind."



"Maybe you should work on clearing your heart first; then maybe your mind will follow."



"Maybe you're right."



"So where do we go from here?"



"I don't know. I've told you how I feel; why don't you tell me how you feel?"



"Okay." She sat back down. "The time I have spent with you has been wonderful. When you aren't going 'ape shit,' you are fun to be with and I always want more; but I am not going to waste my time with some insecure, asshole who is jealous of every man I talk to and can't decide if he likes me or hates me."



"You called me an asshole, Jennette called me an asshole, and my own father called me stupid. I'm beginning to see a pattern here."



"Who's Jennette?"



"She's my best friend's wife."



"Oh."



"So let's see where we are. I'm a stupid, asshole loser who doesn't know his ass from third base; and you're ... you're ... what? What exactly are you?" She started to answer, but I stopped her. "Wait. Don't tell me."



We were both sitting. Eyes locked on each other. I stood and walked over to her. When I was standing over her, our eyes were still locked. I leaned down and put my hands on the arms of her chair and got as close to her as I could. She didn't flinch, blink, or move.



She whispered, "So tell me. What am I?"



"Hungry." I whispered back. "Would you have dinner with me."



She smiled. "Yes, please." Then she lifted her head just enough to kiss me.



Sometime in the few minutes I was in that house, I fell in love and her history with men didn't matter. Of course, I had tried to reconcile myself to her past before; but this time ... this time I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it didn't matter. What happened to make the difference? I realized that I was happier with her than without her.



I thoroughly enjoyed working on the Spenser, but from that day on, I enjoyed it even more. Everybody around me was happy. Mr. Tarver never mentioned Christine, but since she lived in his house, he had to know what was going on.



Two weeks after we talked at her house, we had sex for the first time. It was on Wednesday. My father was due to get out of the hospital the next day so we went to his house.



There is something unbelievably sensual about watching a woman you are going to make love to undress; knowing that with each article of clothing removed you're that much closer to touching and tasting the most perfect thing ever created; a woman's body.



I sat on the edge of my bed. She started with her blouse. Her nipples were hard. I could see them trying to force their way through her clothes. You don't see that very often anymore ... at least I don't. Women, it seems, try to avoid having people see their stiff nips. That's a shame. Anyway, she pulled her blouse out of her jeans and one button at a time opened it. When there were no buttons left to open, she didn't take it off. She let it hang there so I could she her naked abdomen and white bra. Black bras, red bras, pink bras, purple bras, and all other colors of bras may be exciting, but I much prefer the white ones. Then she kicked her shoes off, reached for the waistband of her jeans, unfastened her belt, unbuttoned the button, and reached for the zipper.



Her right thumb and forefinger took hold of the zipper tab and in one slow movement, lowered the zipper and exposed her white panties. She put her hands on her hips between her panties and jeans and pushed the jeans down her legs wiggling her hips as she pushed. My breathing changed and my dick started to get hard.



She stood and motioned for me to stand and come to her. I did. She pulled on my shirt and pulled me close to her. She blew in my ear and whispered, "I'm going to strip you naked and fuck you within an inch of your life." With that she unbuttoned my shirt and slipped it off my shoulders. Then my trousers. She unfastened my belt, unbuttoned and unzipped them and slid them down my legs sliding down herself as she held on to them. When they were at my feet, she started to stand. As she did, her hands clutched the bottom of my t-shirt and pulled it up and over my head. Then she dropped it to the floor. She looked at me and smiled. Then put her hands on my shoulders, leaned in, and put her mouth on my left nipple ... and sucked.



My dick went to instant steel and I moaned. She chuckled and moved to my right nipple. I groaned. She chuckled, again. I reached up and took her hands off my shoulders then slid her blouse off her. Then I slid her bra straps off her shoulders and continued pulling on them and watched as her breasts started coming into view. First the top bulge of the breast then the brown of her areola appeared. I took a deep breath as her nipples literally popped up as the bra slid down uncovering them. I continued pulling on her bra straps until both breasts were fully exposed.



"Oh, fuck, Ryan." Now it was her turn to moan.



I still had the bra straps in my hands and I walked backwards bringing her with me by pulling on them. When we got to the bed, I pushed her gently onto it then got between her legs. We looked at each other and smiled.



"I love you, Ryan," she said softly.



"And I love you," I said as I reached for her panties. She lifted her hips as I pulled them off of her. When they were gone, she spread her legs wide in invitation. She reached for my dick and I was still wearing my briefs.



"Get naked for me," she said. I jumped up, pulled down my briefs and took off my socks; then I knelt on my knees between her legs. "That's better." And she smiled as she, again, reached for my dick.



There was no hurry as she pulled me toward her and I entered her. There was no rush as we made the moves and motions of lovers; but a sense of urgency manifest itself as we approached our orgasms. The slow in and out became hard and fast thrusting and my release was both strong and long lasting; stronger and longer than any I had ever had.



We rested for a while and did it again.



I was supposed to be at the hospital to pick up my father at nine. She left at eight. I was beginning to be like J. Paul Tarver; I was 15 minutes late. As I walked up to him, he saw the grin on my face and spoke.



"That's not the look of a man who is crippled. What happened?" So I told him.



He listened all the way to his house smiling the whole way ... just as I was.



Several weeks went by. I divided my time between my father, Spenser, and Christine. My father wanted to meet her and he did. She came over one Saturday afternoon and didn't leave until after midnight. The three of us played Yahtzee while Christine and I enjoyed a bit of wine. My father drank sweet iced tea. We all laughed a lot.



No one at the building site ever mentioned her. I didn't say anything and neither did Dennis or Martin ... I called him Martin now. Even Mr. Tarver avoided the topic; at least around me. I had no idea if Dennis and Martin knew Christine and I were an 'item,' and no further mention was made about my working for them full time. I was, however; I just never had my own office. If I needed to make new drawings, I used one of theirs.



Another three months went by. Christine had almost moved in with my father and me.



One evening, dad had gone to bed and she was walking out on her way home. I walked her to her car. I opened the driver's door. She was driving the Facel Vega ... again. She sat behind the wheel, looked up at me and said. "Good night. I love you."



"Do you really?" I asked.



"I do, really," she responded.



"Then marry me."



Her eyes got big and she almost tore the door off getting out and clinging, tearfully, to me.



"Oh, God, yes!"



We kissed for a long time and she started to get back into the car, but stopped. She looked at me.



"Five." She said.



"Five what?"



"Men. I slept with five men before you."



"I don't care. I'm the last man you will ever sleep with."



"Yes, you are, but I wanted you to know."



"Why tell me now?"



"If you could love me thinking I slept with a lot of guys ..."



I didn't let her finish. I kissed her long and softly.



I watched as she roared up the street. I only hoped that she didn't kill herself or wreck the car. Her father would never forgive me.



J. Paul Tarver was alone in the construction trailer when I went in the next morning. "Does this mean that you are cashing in your raincheck?" he asked nonchalantly.



"What do you mean?"



"You asked for a raincheck when you were offered your job back."

<hr pg="5" />"I forgot about the raincheck but I've given the job offer a lot of thought and decided that if I took it would mean I was working for you and I won't be obligated to my father-in-law. So, I'll have to pass."



"Goddammit, Ryan. We don't want you working for anyone else in Houston, and Christine's mother and I don't want her moving someplace else. So we'll have to come up with something."



"Let's finish Spenser and see what happens. Deal?"



"Do I have a choice?" he asked with a grin. And we shook hands.



I shook my head no and that seemed to be the signal for everybody to come into the trailer. The workday always started with a meeting of all the different trade supervisors before work began. After the meeting, Dennis, Martin, Mr. Tarver and I were left. Mr. Tarver spoke. "Dennis, Marty, I suppose I should tell you that Ryan has officially turned down our offer of a full time job." I saw the look of disappointment on their faces. "He has, however, agreed to stay on in his current capacity until Spenser is completed." I could see sighs of relief. "At which time, we'll see what happens." Then, he tossed out as casually as he could as he walked out. "Oh, by the way. He and my daughter are getting married." Nobody could miss the grin on his face.



Six months later, Christine and I were married. When we left the church, we saw, parked on the street outside, the ugly blue, one of 36, 1958 Facel Vega FV 4 Typhoon with a big red bow on it and a sign saying "Congratulations" leaning against it. Christine and I stopped and were just staring at it when my father-in-law moved between us, put an arm around each of us and said.



"She's all yours. I'm happy to get rid of the ugly piece of shit."

