Fuck, she really does follow my life closely. “I’ve never dated one porn star.” Although I fucked several on the plane ride to Houston. “I want the fucking baggie. Now.”
Again, she denies me with a shake of her head. I suspect she’s used to getting her way. Is it because she’s spoiled or ignored, I don’t know. I do know what she needs, though. Discipline. Structure. Focus. At one time, I found it in my music. Lately, not even music has been enough to subdue my restiveness.
Asshole steps beside her. “Powder belongs to me,” he says tightly, a handkerchief pressed to his bleeding nose, his eye already swelling. “It’s my decision who gets it or not and I’ve chosen her.”
Cursing, I dig in my back pocket and offer him all the hundreds I have.
“Sloane, please.” Her tortured whisper will haunt me. The care and concern infused in it is more than I get from anyone. “Do you swear it isn’t for you?”
I nod and, as quickly as I came upon her, she leaves. Just like that. A delicate star brightening my life one moment and an elusive angel floating forever away the next.
Long minutes later, I sit with the coke, fighting the urge to do a line. My hands actually shake.
“Sloane, please…”
Her plea bounces in my head and her scent remains on my fingers, my lips, and in my mouth. For her, the sad, little temptress, I find the nearest bathroom and flush the blow. Then, I splash water on my face. It isn’t cold at all, so it doesn’t give my system the shock it needs to snap back from my encounter with her.
I regret not forcing the issue about her name. All it took was one look from me to get my dick into her mouth. I’m sure one, cold command for her name would’ve produced results, too. Maybe, I didn’t want to know it. A name is so personal. This way, our sex remained simple and unencumbered with expectations.
She said I’d forget her name, so she never bothered to offer it to me. But, she’s a younger, softer, feminine version of me. For the rest of my life, I’ll remember the unidentified waif with the gorgeous purple eyes.
Chapter Two
Cassandra
Old. That’s how I see myself because that’s how the world sees me. Old. Should dress in respectably-lengthened skirts, slacks, button-down blouses. Nothing too colorful. Nothing too short.
At thirty, wedges already replace your party shoes. At thirty-five, flats replace those wedges. And, those like me? My age? I should find canvas sneakers.
On edge, I pad to my mirrored walk-in closet and I’m hit with images of myself from all directions. My white-blond hair is still long, thanks to my defiantly choosing not to cut it as befitting a forty-five-year-old mother of two. The shade hides the gray that began to grow in the day after I hit thirty. Gray hair laid in wait for that milestone and didn’t have the patience to withhold any longer than twenty-four hours after my birthday, before it made its presence known. Now, my color gives me a glimpse of how I may look when I tire of dyeing my hair.
My reflection captures the intense scowl on my face. The day I tire of coloring my hair is the day the casket is closed on me.
It’s getting close to the time my husband arrives. Close to the time for the sex I’ve anticipated since he offered it to me yesterday, after our original bed partner—a man older than Parnell—backed out.
I’m scared, though. Will I act like a forty-five-year old? Will I look like one to him? My husband’s bringing home the youngest man ever for our fun and games.
I walk to the window and open the blinds, not caring that late afternoon is sliding into early evening. Shifting shadows gives me an advantage. Right beneath my window, groundskeepers weed and fertilize a garden. Sunlight frames me, bouncing off my nude body. One of them smirks at me. I return the favor, a queen caught in her tower, appreciating the gift of growing older, but hating, despising, the way the world views age. Especially a woman’s age.
“Mom?”
I snap the blinds shut at Georgie’s call and rush to grab a silk robe. “Come in, love.”
She peeks her dark head in, still waiting for me to signal her all the way into my sanctuary. My closet comforts me. My clothes. My shoe collection. My array of vibrators hidden beneath the bar also installed in here.
“Come in,” I urge her with a wave and a smile.
Relief settles into Georgie’s amethyst-colored eyes. She’s wearing gym shorts and a t-shirt, both with the emblem of the Catholic school she attends, where her grades are abysmal. Her black hair—styled in a ponytail—is swinging, almost matching the sway of her hips. I stare at her, remembering myself at her age. Filled with hope of a great love and the promise of the world at my feet. I wish for a do over. I’ve made too many mistakes to count. Slept with too many men to be proud of.