TITLE:  BRIGHT MIDNIGHT
AUTHOR:  NANCY NIVLING
DISCLAIMER:  He's not mine, but I wish he was. Jake belongs to Zalman King, Beth is my own invention. A stand-in, if you will. Hey, there's a good reason I wrote this thing in first-person! <g>
RATING:  NC-17 for explicit heterosexual sex (sorry, slashers, maybe next time) and general rough language. 
CATEGORY:  Jake/other 
E-MAIL/FEEDBACK addressed to: dnivling@redshift.com

Hello, fellow DD-lusters. Here's a little something for you who wax squidgy at the thought of Rooftop Jake. A nice bedtime tale, if you will. Hope y'all like it.

Enjoy!!

Part One of Two...

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Dear Red Shoes--

You don't know me, but I know you.

I first saw you almost two years ago, when you came into that funky little bookstore near the college where I was working at the time. 
The image of you from that day is seared permanently into my brain -- tight black jeans and t-shirt, dark glasses masking your eyes. Thick, spiky brown hair still slightly damp from the shower. You didn't smile, but that didn't deter me from wondering what it would be like to trace my tongue along the line of your lower lip, suck it into my mouth.

Still, I couldn't help thinking there was something ineffably sad, even dejected in your walk, the set of your shoulders. A man with someone he loves waiting for him to come home to her wouldn't carry himself like that. You looked like you'd wandered in because you had no idea where to go, what to do next. 

Who was she, I wondered. Who had hurt you so badly?

Then you turned and looked in my direction. And I banged into the wall, sending the stack of paperbacks I was carrying tumbling to the floor. You knelt down to help me scoop them up. Our fingers collided.
I gasped, my head snapping up as you took off your glasses, hooking them in the collar of your shirt, exposing the hollow of your throat.
My mouth went suddenly, completely dry; I didn't dare look any higher. All I could think was how much I wanted to press my lips to that tantalizing patch of skin.

I mumbled a quick "thanks," grabbed the books and disappeared into the back room.

I didn't see you again for over a year. But by that time you wouldn't have recognized me -- thank God. By that time I'd done a lot of changing, inside and out. 

New job, new friends, new clothes...new life.

But imagine my surprise when I looked out the front window of my new apartment and saw you strolling down the opposite side of the street, a dog trotting happily along by your side. Imagine my shock when you entered the building directly across from mine -- and then, a couple minutes later, when the lights on the top floor blinked on, and you appeared.

I turned off all the lights in my living room and stood there at the window, music playing softly in the background as I watched you. Watched you working at your desk, watched you fixing yourself a solitary supper in that incredible kitchen...

Watched the subtle play of muscles in your back, your arms, your shoulders, when you peeled off your shirt to shoot hoops in your living room...

It soon became a nightly ritual; I'd dash home from work, eat a quick supper and park myself in front of the window, waiting for you to come home. Conscience dug its prickly claws in me more than once, but I shrugged off the sting. I wasn't hurting anyone -- you didn't even know I existed, and you never would. 

It was nothing but a harmless fantasy.

That's what I kept telling myself every time I brought myself to orgasm, your image dancing in my head. Every time I buried my face in my pillow, wetting it with tears of shame and frustration.
I was falling in love with you. And I'd never even seen your eyes. I didn't know your name.

It wasn't difficult to satisfy my curiosity on the last count -- I just walked across the street the next day and stole a glance at your mailbox. 

Jake. Not exactly what I'd been expecting, but it suited you. Jake. I rolled it around on my tongue, savoring the taste of it. I whispered it under my breath at work. And at night, when I watched you, it became my mantra.

I didn't sleep that night, or the next, or the next. The mere idea of eating became repulsive to me. All I could think of -- all I wanted -- was you.

I wrote you letters -- long, passionate letters pouring out my soul to you -- and tore up every one of them. I toyed with the idea of knocking on your door and introducing myself, but somehow my courage always managed to desert me at the crucial moment.

But courage had nothing to do with what happened next.

It was late on a Friday afternoon, several months later. I'd been too restless to get any work done, so I came home early and launched a full-scale cleaning spree, hoping I could finally burn off some of my nervous energy. 

No such luck. So I fished a load of laundry out of the hamper and traipsed down the block to the laundromat.

But I'd piled the basket too high, and I couldn't see where I was going. The next thing I knew, my shins collided with something warm and solid, and down I went -- hard.

And so did you -- not two feet away from me, your handful of envelopes skittering all over the sidewalk.

"Jesus! Are you okay?" 

I was so stunned I barely registered that you were talking to me. Nodding numbly, I started to get up--

Then I felt your fingers close over my wrist--

And my eyes met yours for the first time. 

But something in those rich hazel depths made me look away -- or maybe it was something inside me.

Somehow you lifted me to my feet -- and then the pain hit, shooting up my right leg. I hiked up the long gypsy-print skirt I was wearing, my breath hissing out in spurts at the sight of my knee, scraped and bloody.

"Come on over here," you said, pulling me toward a nearby building's front steps. I sat down with a decidedly ungraceful thud, my gaze finally sweeping you, taking in your jeans, grey sweater, your leather jacket the color of dark wine. It looked so buttery-soft I wanted to reach out and touch it.

Then you tugged a handkerchief from your pocket and pressed it to the gash on my leg.

I thought my heart was going to stop. "Please, you don't have to--"

"Sit still. Applying pressure's the fastest way to stop the bleeding."

The sound of your voice washed over me, low and warm, sexy and soothing. Your hands felt gentle and strong at the same time, your fingertips overlapping the makeshift bandage, brushing the skin just below my knee.  

They were the most beautiful hands I'd ever seen on a man. 

I felt wobbly all over -- thank God I was already sitting down. I drew a slow, shaky breath, the pain in my leg suddenly becoming bearable.

Then something cold and wet nuzzled my hand, and I looked down -- into a pair of liquid brown canine eyes.

"That's right, Stella -- apologize," I heard you say. "You got in this pretty lady's way, and look what happened."

Pretty lady. My pulse skipped. Swallowing hard, I leaned over to scratch the dog between her silky black ears. I could feel her trembling in my fingertips. "Poor thing," I murmured. "You're just about as shaken up as I am." 

But nowhere near as shaken up as I was the next moment, when you grabbed my free hand, placing it over the bandage. "I'd better go pick that up" -- you cocked your head toward the awful mess of laundry and mail all over the concrete -- "before it gets trampled on. Be right back."

I tried not to stare at your ass as you walked away, as the seat of your jeans pulled tight when you bent over. I really did try. But my will power wasn't that strong. 

By the time you got back, though, the bleeding appeared to have stopped. With a sigh of mingled relief and disappointment, I lurched to my feet, taking the laundry basket from you. This time I made sure our hands didn't touch.

"You sure you're okay?" you asked.

"It's just a scraped knee. I used to bang myself up worse than this when I was a kid."

You hesitated a second, biting your lip. "I've got a washer and dryer at my place. You're welcome to use them if you want."

It was one of those moments when your entire life flashes in front of your eyes. My life took about ten seconds. "That's...not necessary."

"Look, I owe you something for all this inconvenience."

"No, you don't," I replied a bit too sharply. To my surprise, you had the good grace to look disappointed. "But thanks anyway." 

I started down the steps.

"Hey."

I told myself not to turn back. I didn't listen.

"My name's Jake," you said with a smile. A devastating smile. You extended your hand, but I didn't take it. "And you are..?"

"Beth," I answered finally. "I'm Beth."

"Well, I hope I see you around, Beth."

For a few fleeting seconds, I think I actually believed you.

I was never really sure how I made it to the laundromat, but somehow I did, because the next thing I knew I was staring at the bottom of my laundry basket.

At a plain white envelope at the bottom of my laundry basket. My fingers trembled, tingled as I picked it up, turned it over.

The handwriting was tiny, elegant -- and undeniably feminine. A faintly floral scent wafted up, teasing my nostrils. It was addressed to a post office box a few blocks away; I recognized the zip code.

And that wasn't the only thing that looked vaguely familiar. "Red Shoes," I read, repeating it over and over under my breath. I  knew I'd seen those words before -- and not in a Nordstrom's ad.

Then I spied an abandoned newspaper a couple chairs over, and realization dawned. Grabbing it, I flipped to the classifieds--

And there it was, surrounded by a black-bordered box. "Women, have you been betrayed? Have you betrayed another?" I read, moving my lips silently. "Man, 35, wounded and alone, recovering from the loss of a once-in-a-lifetime love...looking for reasons why..."

It was you -- the only ad in the whole personals section with even a shred of genuine emotion in it. It had to be yours.

I stared down at the unopened envelope in my lap, conscience warring with my need to know. I couldn't tear it open fast enough.
I read it through twice, my cheeks flaming hot by the time I was through. The explicit tone shocked me at first, but there was an underlying intimacy to it that had nothing to do with sex. The woman who had written this letter would never know you, never see you face to face. She could confide her deepest secrets, tell you anything and everything about herself without fear of ridicule or reproach.

I envied her. I wanted to be her.

I folded my laundry, limped back down the street in a daze. I stopped in front of my apartment building and looked up, toward your apartment. Your lights were on, a lambent golden glow against the azure dusk. So inviting. My heart ached.

Then I saw you moving past the window, your shadow playing on the ceiling -- and I was across the street and up the front stairs of your building before good sense could stop me.

Surprise flickered in your eyes when you swung open the door. "Uh...hi."

You'd changed into a sleeveless grey top that showed off the muscles in your arms to perfection. And God, you were flashing me that smile again. "Hi. I...um, I brought back your handkerchief," I said, pulling it out of my basket. 

You took it, turned it over in your hand. "You washed it."

"Yeah, well...it sort of needed it."

Our eyes met for a few silent seconds -- and we both burst out laughing.

"Listen," you said finally, "I was just about to make myself some dinner. Want to join me?"

"Oh, I couldn't put you to all that trouble--"

"It's no trouble. In fact, you'd be doing me a favor. Stella may be man's best friend, but sometimes her conversation leaves a lot to be desired." 

This time you didn't have to ask me twice.

You took the basket from me, tucked it away in a corner near the door, and moved off toward the kitchen. "Let me get things started over here and I'll be right with you, okay? Make yourself at home."
I took a few tentative steps into your living room, resisting the temptation to pinch myself. Here I was in your apartment, your special place. This was no fantasy. No dream. I sucked down a deep breath, trying to quell the rapid flutter of my heart. 

I'd gotten some small sense of the spaciousness of the place from what I could see from my window, but the reality of it proved much more amazing. It was huge, sprawling, a funky, playful mix of high-tech and traditional, steam pipes and fans clashing with the hardwood floors and antique furniture.

Your desk and drafting table stood in one corner, both buried under rolls of paper. My cheeks grew warm as I caught sight of the basketball hoop on the far wall, as memories of you, shirtless and sweating, flooded through me. Not now, I chided myself.

I didn't dare look toward the rear of the place, to where I knew the bedroom must be.

If I hadn't heard your footsteps coming up behind me, I would have jumped out of my skin. "You look pensive," you said.

I turned, my gaze instantly drawn to the two glasses of wine in your hands. Rich red wine, the exact same color as the leather jacket you'd been wearing earlier. Accepting the proffered glass, I swirled the ruby liquid once, twice, then took a sip. It burned its way down my throat, settled warmly deep in my stomach. I felt myself finally starting to relax.

"I was just thinking...this place is extraordinary, but with a few notable exceptions" -- I nodded at your cluttered workspace -- "it really doesn't seem like you at all. No guy furniture."

"'Guy furniture,'" you repeated, a bemused expression dancing in your eyes, quirking up the corners of your lips. "I don't think I've heard that one before."

"You know -- big, overstuffed chairs and couches. Perfect for kicking back, eating munchies, watching football."

"B-ball's my sport of choice."

"Yeah, well...what I know about that subject could fit on a pinhead." I moved closer to the desk, fingering a piece of paper laying there, a rough pencil sketch. "You're an artist?"

"Architect."

"Same thing, isn't it?"

You smiled. My grip on my wine glass tightened. "Try telling that to my latest clients. They want about a hundred revisions by Monday."

"Even artists have to eat, right?"

As if on cue, the kitchen buzzer went off. "C'mon," you said, "dinner's almost ready. You can talk to me while I finish up."

We pulled two tall stools over to the counter and sat down across from each other. Supper was broiled steak done to a tender, medium-rare turn, tossed green salad with vinaigrette, and crusty French bread. 

Not to mention wine -- about three glasses of it. By the time the meal was finished, I was feeling positively mellow.

And to think that I'd dismissed as hopeless the idea of ever meeting you. That even if I did, you'd probably turn out to be a jerk, and I'd be mad -- and if you were just plain ordinary, I'd be disappointed. Either way, I'd told myself, you'd never live up to my expectations.

I couldn't have been more wrong. You were funny and sexy and sweet. You even laughed at my lame jokes. And you looked at me as if -- at this particular moment in time, anyway -- I was the only woman in the world.

"I'm impressed," I said, gesturing at my empty plate. "Most of the guys I've known could barely open a can of pork and beans without cutting off a finger. This was...pretty incredible." 

You grinned. "Well, you inhaled it so fast I wasn't even sure you tasted it."

"Oh, I tasted it, all right. It was glorious. So much better than that frozen crap I've been eating lately. What with work and all, I haven't had time to fix myself a decent meal in ages."

"So what do you do?"

At first, I thought you were referring to my favorite evening activity. But there was no possible way you could know about that. Was there? "I-I'm sorry. I don't know what you mean."

"Your job. What do you do for a living?"

"Oh...I'm an editor. A book editor."

"What kind of books do you edit?"

"Genre fiction mostly. Science fiction. Mysteries. Romance novels." I felt myself blush a little at that last admission.

"Do you like it?"

"Well, I love reading, so I suppose getting paid for doing it's not such a bad deal. Some of the stuff I have to wade through is a trial, though. But I guess that's why they call it work." 

"That's why." Sliding off your stool, you scooped up your plate. But when I tried to do the same, you waved me away. "Go pick out some music or something. I'll clean up."

"But I want to help--"

"Guests don't do dishes in my house. Go on. This'll only take a few minutes anyway."

Feeling blissfully foggy-headed, I floated over to the stereo, poked through your collection of CD's. I couldn't help but smile at the eclecticism of it -- everything from Dylan to Wagner. On a whim, I popped an anthology of '60's ballads into the machine and pressed play. Van Morrison's sensual rasp filled the room.


She's as sweet as tupelo honey
She's an angel of the first degree
She's as sweet as tupelo honey
Sweet as honey from the bee... 


I started humming, then singing along in a soft undertone, changing 'she' to 'he.' Somehow it seemed right.

Then I felt something bump my shin, and I looked down. 

"Stella! Where've you been hiding?" Her sole response was to flop onto her side, offering her flank for petting. I went down on one knee to do just that, and Stella's tail was soon thumping the floor in border-collie ecstasy.

"Well, you've gone and done it now," I heard you say from the kitchen. "You could probably break in here and steal everything in the place, and she wouldn't even whimper."

"Don't start giving me ideas," I retorted, straightening up, drifting over to a nearby bookshelf. There was an amazing variety here as well -- architectural texts and magazines mixed in with a few bestsellers, classic and modern literature, poetry. I reached for a volume of Blake and flipped it open.

The breath stopped in my throat when I saw what was written on the front flyleaf. 'To Alex -- with love forever -- Jake.'

You had to choose that moment to come up beside me. Your gaze didn't miss a single nuance in my expression. "What's wrong?"

"Who's Alex?" I blurted.

Your eyes darted from me to the book and back again.

"Look, I wasn't trying to pry," I said. "The book was sitting right here, and I--"

"It's okay." That's what you said, but your face had gone two shades paler. "I...we were in love, wanted to get married. But she died."

Your words hit me so hard, I had to close my eyes. "When?"

"God, it must be...I don't know, about three years now."

I remembered how you'd looked, the way you'd walked the first time I'd seen you, that long-ago day in the bookstore. The wording of your personals ad. Now it was all beginning to fall into place. "Three years, and you still keep the things you gave her?"

"Hey, I like Blake too."

I slid the book back onto the shelf, ran my fingers along its spine. "How long was she sick?"

"Sick? Where'd you get that idea?"

"Well, from the way you sounded, I just assumed--"

"She wasn't sick. She killed herself."

"Oh, my...God," I breathed. Your eyes looked so sad, so full of pain, I wanted to put my arms around you, hold you close. But I didn't. I couldn't. "I never know what to say at times like this. 'I'm sorry' just seems so trite. But I am, you know."

You didn't speak for the longest time, just stood there, your gaze focused on nothing, a million miles away.

"I should go," I said finally, moving toward the door. "It's getting late."

But you caught hold of my hand as I passed, pulling me back. Drawing me into the circle of your arms. Smoothing a stray lock of hair from my cheek. Pressing your soft lips to my forehead, silk whispering on my skin. 

"Jake, I--"

"Shhh. Dance with me."

And you started swaying, moving to the slow, liquid beat of the music, taking me with you. Wrapping my arms about your neck,  I melted against you with a soul-deep sigh, inhaling your skin's warm, spicy scent, resting my head on your shoulder.

The music swirled, throbbed around us, fading from one song to another as time stood still.



Take the highway to the end of the night
End of the night
End of the night

Take a journey to the bright midnight...


I looked up into your eyes, caressed your cheek with my fingertips. Your mouth sought out my palm, placed a kiss there, your tongue darting out to trace the length of my lifeline.

I shuddered, feeling the blood rushing in my temples. Your arms around my waist were the only thing holding me up.

Then you slid one hand up, threading your fingers in my hair, bringing your mouth down gently on mine.

I moaned, clinging to you, parting my lips eagerly for you. My first real taste of you -- like the wine, tangy, smoky-warm -- sent an electric shock sailing through me, searing my senses. My heart threatened to pound its way out of my chest.

"God, you're beautiful," you breathed, your lips close to my ear. "So soft and sweet. So responsive."

You didn't mean it, I told myself. You couldn't. It was just the wine talking. But at the moment, I didn't give a damn. 

Our tongues met, entwined once more, working, sliding hot and wet in my mouth. I felt the wall against my back as you broke the kiss, trailing your lips down my throat, unbuttoning my blouse. I slipped both hands under your shirt, my fingertips burning at the touch of your skin, the hard muscles I'd only fantasized about for months. You raised up your arms, and off it came.

Unhooking the front closure of my bra, you cupped my breasts, lifting, kneading them in your hands, flicking your thumbs over my nipples, already so erect the coolness of the surrounding air made them ache. You ground your hips against my belly, dipping down for another kiss that threatened to leave my lips bruised.

My hand traveled downward, pressing, squeezing the ridge of flesh I knew I would find there, straining against your fly.

"All for you, baby," you whispered. "Do you want it now?"

I yanked down the zipper, your flesh springing hot and hard into my hand, steel encased in velvet. My fingers trailed up and down the thick shaft, caressing, stroking.

You groaned deep in your throat, sliding both hands under me, lifting me off the floor, pushing me back against the wall, hiking up my skirt. I felt your fingers on my leg, my belly, slipping inside the waistband of my panties, pulling hard. The wispy material gave instantly.

I cried out as you mounted me, plunged inside me, thrusting deep. I wrapped my legs around you, ignoring the pulling sting of the gash on my knee, my hands sliding down to knead your muscled ass, urging you on.

I wanted you so far inside me I could feel you under my skin, carry you with me forever.

You moved in me slowly, filling me to overflowing. I hung in your arms like a rag doll, pressing my lips to your chest, tasting your skin, heated and sweat-salty, my teeth grazing your nipples, swirling them with my tongue. 

With a low growl you dragged my mouth up to meet yours, your tongue mimicking the thrusting of your shaft, faster now, driving me back, pounding me against the wall. I tightened my grip on you and hung on.

I'd never dreamed it could be this good, not even with you. A slow, stabbing ache at my core was building, spiraling--

And it slammed into me like a freight train at full steam, the world crashing, shattering around me...

I regained my awareness gradually, reluctantly even, feeling moisture on my face, tasting the salt of my own tears. Slowly I realized that you had stopped moving, yet still remained within me. I looked up, meeting your concerned gaze. In the dimmed light your eyes appeared almost green. 

"I feel like such a bastard," you said softly, wiping away a stray tear with the pad of your thumb. "I was way too rough--"

"You didn't hurt me. In fact--" I bit the inside of my lip, grateful now for the room's relative darkness, "that's the first time it's ever felt...right."

Your eyes widened, my meaning sinking in. "Jesus--" 

"Look, it's not like...what just happened's never happened to me before. It just...never happened to me before with someone else in the room."

"Oh, babe...why didn't you tell me?"

"It's a little tricky working something like that into a normal conversation."

You hung your head -- which made me feel about two inches tall.
"It's okay," I said. "It doesn't matter."

"Like hell it doesn't. As far as I'm concerned, a woman who's never come while she's making love is still a virgin." Moving back slightly, you gently withdrew from me, still holding me cradled in your arms, tracing the line of my throat with your mouth. "You deserve better than some cheap wham-bam up against a wall."

I whimpered, momentarily bereft at the loss of you. "But you didn't--"

"We've got plenty of time for that. You're staying here with me tonight." And before I could protest, you scooped me up, carrying me into the bedroom, laying me down on the fluffy forest green comforter. 

But when you reached for the lamp on the nightstand, I panicked, grabbing your wrist. 

"I want to see you," you said.

"Moonlight's all we need. Sexier that way."

"Shy, huh?"

Even in the dark, I think you saw me blush.

"That's okay. In fact, I think it's kind of cute."

You stood up then, shucking your jeans and boxers, kicking them into the corner. Moonlight poured in through the half-shut blinds, blue-white, bathing every gorgeous inch of you. I drank  in the sight, my breath coming short and quick.

You lay down beside me, behind me, undoing the back closure of my skirt, helping me out of it. I hastily unbuttoned the long sleeves of my blouse, letting you slide it, then my bra, from my shoulders, tossing all three garments to the floor.

We nestled spoon-fashion, our bodies fitting together with a perfection that sent my head spinning. You brushed my hair aside, bestowing warm, wet kisses on the nape of my neck, sucking gently on my ear lobe. The sweet ache between my legs started once more.
We lay like this for what seemed like eternity, kissing and caressing. I could feel your erection rising again, rubbing the cleavage of my ass, the small of my back. I rolled over, parting my legs for you.

"Not yet, babe," you whispered, taking my nipple into your mouth, laving it with your tongue. "Nice and slow this time."

You kissed and licked your way down my body, driving me half-crazy with wanting you. But my head snapped up as I felt your warm breath between my thighs, tickling the sensitive flesh there.

"Please...stop."

You looked up, your expression puzzled. "You don't like it?"

"I don't know...nobody's ever..."

"Good." You smiled, and my heart flip-flopped. "I want this to be just for us."

My hips nearly arched off the bed at the first touch of your tongue teasing me open, kissing and lapping my delicate flesh. You fell to your work with exquisite abandon, tracing hot, wet spirals around my clitoris, thrusting your tongue deep inside me, tasting me.
Tangling my fingers in your hair, rocking myself against your mouth, I felt my inner muscles beginning to spasm--

And you moved up at that precise moment, sliding your hands under me, thrusting into me. I wrapped my arms around your neck and came like crazy, drawing you deep, rippling up and down the length of you. You followed a second or two later, groaning into my shoulder, filling me with your warmth.

"So much for nice and slow, huh?" I whispered into your ear.

"God, feeling you come like that sent me right over the edge. I'm sorry, babe. Next time'll be better."

"Mmmm. Promises, promises..."

You laughed, kissed me and rolled over, pulling me into your arms for sleep.

The next thing I was aware of was a plaintive whine and something very wet licking my hand. I half-opened one eye--

And looked right into Stella's, not two inches away from me. 

"What's the matter, girl?" I croaked.

She took a few steps in the general direction of the kitchen, then turned back, giving me an expectant look.

I glanced down at you, stifling a giggle at the sight of your face buried in the pillow, the sound of your soft snore. 

"Oh, all right," I grumbled, swinging my legs over the side of the bed, looking at the clock on the nightstand. Five minutes to seven.

Then my gaze shifted, and I saw it -- a picture of you with a dark-haired young woman, your arms wrapped around her, both of you smiling, laughing into the camera.

Alex.

A fine blade of pain twisted its way through me, a telltale burning sensation starting behind my eyes.

And I suddenly knew I had to get out of there -- out of your bed, out of your apartment. Now. 

Gathering up my clothing, I padded barefoot into the living room, dressing quickly. I ran the entire way from your front door to mine, cursing aloud when I realized I'd left my laundry basket -- along with my keys -- at your place. Fumbling under the mat, I found the extra key and let myself in.

I staggered to the kitchen, put on the tea kettle, and sat down at the table. Everything would be okay, I kept repeating to myself. All you knew about me was my first name and that I was a book editor. I'd pack up my clothes and stay in a motel until I could find another place to live. You'd never find me.

The kettle started whistling. I took it from the burner, my fingers still trembling--

And almost dropped it on my foot when the pounding on the front door came.

"Open up, Beth." 

I could hear you all the way in the kitchen. And if I could, so could the neighbors. I padded back into the hallway, approaching the door with caution. "I don't want to talk to you."

"Open the door."

"No."

"You want me to stand here and shout at the top of my lungs? I will, if that's what it takes."

No way out now. I cracked open the door as far as the safety chain allowed, swallowing hard at my first glimpse of you, in your rumpled jeans, grey sleeveless shirt and leather jacket, stubbled and bleary-eyed. "Five minutes. That's all you get."

"Fine."

You stepped inside and I shut the door, standing with my back against it, arms folded over my chest. "I don't recall telling you where I live."

"Stella started barking her head off the second you were out the door. I saw you sprinting across the street." You fished in your jacket pocket, pulled something out. "By the way, you forgot this."

The Red Shoes letter. Your letter. I'd left it in the laundry basket. Brilliant, just brilliant.

"Is this the reason you left?" you asked.

Jesus, I wanted to crawl through a crack in the floor. "N-no. I'd already read it by the time I decided to...come over."

A muscle twitched, worked in your jaw. "Then why?"

"I...I made a mistake. I'm sorry. Let's leave it at that."

"I can't."

I sucked in a deep breath, praying for strength. "Doesn't it bother you at all that you had unsafe sex with someone you hardly know? It bothers me." 

"Look, I don't...I've got a clean bill of health. You won't get anything from me.

"Except maybe pregnant."

You paled at that; apparently it was another consequence you hadn't considered. "Then we'll deal with it together, if it comes to that."

"You don't owe me anything just because you fucked me."

"I didn't fuck you. I made love to you."

"Same thing."

You stared at me, your mouth slightly open. "What the hell's the matter with you? You weren't like this last night."

"Lucky for you."

"Oh, no -- you're not putting this all on me. You showed up on my doorstep, remember?"

"You poured me all that wine. You seduced me!"

"I didn't hear you screaming rape."

"And I didn't hear you screaming Alex's name when you came -- but then again, I wasn't paying that much attention!"

Dead silence. 

"Is that what this is all about? Alex?" you said finally.

A sudden wave of nausea washed over me, bending me double. I ran into the kitchen, leaned over the sink, racked by dry heaves.

You followed, holding my shoulders while I retched, then, when I was finished, wetting a paper towel, pressing it to my forehead. I moved shakily to the table, dropping into a chair, staring at the floor.

"She's dead, Beth," you said softly, sitting down across from me. 

"Is she? Go take a look at your apartment. She picked out all your furniture, didn't she? And you've still got her books, her picture..." I shook my head, unwilling to meet your gaze. "I can't compete with a memory."

"I never asked you to."

"That's right. You didn't." I fingered the letter, spreading it out on the table. "This is how you mourn her. Even after three years, you still can't let go."

"Maybe I'm ready to let go now. Give us that chance."

"Maybe's not good enough," I replied. "This can't happen. We can't happen. I'm sorry."

I heard your breath hiss out, long and slow. "I'm not leaving until you tell me why. You owe me that much."

"I don't owe you a damn thing," I said, my blood boiling with a sudden flash of icy rage. "Your five minutes are up. I think you know where the door is."

I tried to get up, tried to walk away and leave you sitting there alone, but you grabbed my arm, yanking me back, shoving me down into the chair. 

"Don't you dare run from me," you ground out through gritted teeth. "I'm not going to have another Alex on my conscience. Talk to me."

The burning pain behind my eyes intensified, but I blinked it back. I wasn't about to give you the satisfaction. "I...I can't be your lover, Jake. I can't be anybody's lover."

"Why? What are you so afraid of?"

"Losing control. The idea of giving my life over to somebody else scares the hell out of me. That's why..."

"Tell me."

Time to come clean. If this didn't scare you off, nothing would. "Come here," I said, moving to the window. "What do you see?"

You looked out, following my line of sight. "That's my place. You can look right down into the living room--" 

"Exactly."

You smiled this quirky little half-smile, as if you couldn't make up your mind whether to be embarrassed or flattered. "You've been watching me?"

"Yes."

"For how long?"

"Since I first moved in. Five, six months."

"And you never did anything about it until now?"

"What did you want me to do -- walk up to you on the street and say, 'I want your body'?"

You turned a bit red at that. "Guess not."

"You were a fantasy. And the entire point of fantasy is that it's harmless. Safe."

"Unlike life."

I nodded.

"So was the fantasy better than the reality?" you asked.

"If it was, I don't think either of us would be standing here right now." 

"Beth..."

I reached out and took your hand, led you to the living room, sat you down on the couch. "You really want to know? All of it?"

"Yes."

I leaned down, reaching under the coffee table, pulling out a photo album, running my fingertips over its battered black leather cover. I flipped it open, found a page near the back. "This is me. This is what I looked like two years ago."

You studied the photo in silence for a few endless moments. "You've changed your hair, your clothes...lost weight."

"Fifty pounds."

"Still, there's something familiar...the bookstore."

"Y-you remember?"

You grinned. "Guess you've been falling for me for years."

I turned back a few pages, closer to the middle of the book. "This is me and Rick. My husband. Ex-husband," I amended quickly, seeing your stricken expression.

"Where is he now?"

"In hell, I hope."

Tilting up my chin, you forced me look into your eyes. Your gorgeous eyes. "What did he do to you?"

No running, no turning back now. "You need to understand...I was brought up in a very strict, very Catholic family -- private school, plaid uniforms, Mass every morning, the whole bit. I think I must've been ten years old before it finally dawned on me that all teachers weren't nuns. They drummed it into my head that nice girls saved themselves for marriage. So I did.

"I was twenty-three when I met Rick. No other man had even looked at me twice. He was so sweet, so attentive...I know it's  cliche to say he swept me off my feet, but that's what happened.  I couldn't believe it when he asked me to marry him. We'd known each other two weeks.

"But...I went to bed with the most wonderful man in the world on my wedding night and woke up with a monster. He turned insanely jealous, constantly accusing me of things I had never even thought of doing. I had a good job, but I ended up quitting because he was convinced I was sleeping with my boss. But I thought that maybe if I stayed at home, took good care of him, everything would turn out all right.

"It just got worse. I couldn't cook or clean or do anything well enough to please him. He was always putting me down, finding fault with everything I did, telling me I should feel grateful he married me, that nobody else would ever want me. That I owed him my life. He made me feel like nothing. Less than nothing."

You reached for my hand, entwining our fingers. I wondered if you could feel the skittish flutter of my pulse in my inner wrist. "Did he ever hurt you physically?"

"No...but the implicit threat was always there. Whenever he touched me, it felt like rape." I took a deep breath, pressing on. "One morning I got up and I couldn't stand looking at what I saw in the mirror. So I ran the tub full of water, got in and slashed my wrists open with a razor blade. I didn't even feel it."

"Jesus."

"I woke up in the hospital the next day, and he was standing there, staring down at me. All he said was, 'you couldn't even do that right.' Then he turned around and left. I laid there in that bed, memorizing the cracks in the ceiling, remembering every sick thing he'd ever done to me. And the more I remembered, the madder I got. Finally all I could think was, 'fuck you, you bastard. I'm going to live.' I got out of the hospital two days later and went straight to a motel. But he tracked me down in a couple days -- I had to climb out the bathroom window to get away. So from then on I had to keep moving every few days to make sure he wouldn't find me. I got the job at the bookstore and went back to school to get my master's. After about a year I was able to get together enough money for a divorce, but by then he'd stopped looking for me."

"You never saw him again?"

"No, thank God. He didn't even bother showing up at the divorce hearing. At least his lawyer didn't try to keep me from getting back my things, though."

You didn't say anything for the longest time, just stared at our clasped hands. "I've never figured out why people go out of their way to destroy the most wonderful thing in their lives. I can't even begin to grasp how a mind like that works, and I don't think I want to." Then you turned my hand over, unbuttoning the cuff of my sleeve, baring the white-seamed scar tissue there. I gasped when you pressed your lips to it. "Is this what you didn't want me to see last night?"

All I could do was nod.

"I think some scars are beautiful. Like roadmaps, showing us where we've been, where we're going..." You smoothed back a strand of my hair, stroked my cheek. "I'm falling in love with you, babe. I'm halfway there already."

This was not happening. You couldn't have said what I thought you just said. "You can't love me. You don't even know me."

"Beth, I know more about you right now than I ever knew about Alex."

"But...how can that be? I mean, you lived together--"

"She was sleeping with another guy at the same time we got engaged, and I didn't have a clue. I didn't even find out about it until after she died. She'd kept a diary, wrote down everything about it, about him. Every detail."

"Oh, Jake..." Your words sliced straight through me, a knife twisting in my heart. How could she even look at another man when she'd had you?

You kissed me then, slowly, sweetly, sending the blood in my temples roaring again. I forced myself to pull back before it got too intense.

"Beth..."

"Why do you want me? You could have anyone. I'm not brilliant or beautiful or anything you deserve. I'm ordinary."

"There was nothing ordinary about what happened with us last night."

"That was just body chemistry. Physical attraction. It won't last."

"Give it up, Beth. If you really believed that, you wouldn't have run away."

"I remind you of Alex. That's the only reason you're interes-ted in me."

"You're wrong -- you're not like her at all. She didn't have the courage to face me with the truth. It would've hurt like hell hearing it, but I loved her so much I think I'd have forgiven her anything. But she took that chance away from me and herself." You squeezed my hand tighter. "You're strong. Stronger than Alex ever was. You made the choice she couldn't make. You survived."

"Like you did."

You smiled, and the beat of my heart quickened. "Is that your way of saying we're made for each other? Kindred spirits?"

"More like saying I've run out of arguments," I said, leaning over to brush my lips across yours.

I felt your arms sliding around me as you kissed me back, hot and wet and deep, pulling me onto your lap. I sat back, straddling you, feeling your hands tugging my blouse from the waistband of my skirt. I tried to help by lifting myself up on my knees--

But I swayed a little too sharply to the right and overbalanced, almost landing on the floor. Luckily, your reflexes saved the day.
Our eyes met, and we both dissolved in fits of giggles.

"Thank God one of us has good coordination," I said.

"This place wouldn't happen to have a bedroom, would it?"

"What's the matter, you don't like narrow couches? Could be a challenge..." Your sour expression said it all. "Okay, okay, I get the hint."

Sunlight was pouring in through the bedroom blinds, dappling my dark blue comforter and carpet with pretty dancing patterns. I gave silent thanks for my foresight in cleaning up the day before.

The corners of your mouth quirked up in obvious appreciation. "Pretty, but not too cute. Just like you."

"Thanks. I think."

Then you caught sight of the full-length mirror standing in the far corner -- and I could've sworn I saw a light bulb pop up over your head. "Come here."

"What are you--"

"Just come here," you said, pulling me toward you, in front of you, in front of the mirror. Your hands slipped around me, unbuttoning my blouse, unhooking my bra--

There'd be no undressing in the dark this time. I stiffened, my throat going tight. 

My tension must have communicated itself to you, because I felt your gentle kisses on my neck, my shoulder. Your stubble scratched a little, but it felt good. "Relax. I want you to see how beautiful you are. See yourself the way I see you."

I stood there, heart thumping, watching as you slipped off my blouse and bra, then my skirt, stripping me bare. You pulled me close, my naked back to your still fully-dressed front, rolling each of my nipples in turn between your fingers, making them painfully hard.

"I love your skin," you whispered, your warm breath tickling my ear, "so soft and smooth, all peaches and cream...God, your hair smells incredible, just like crushed roses...the color of sunlight...perfect breasts, nice and round and creamy...fit right in my hands..."
 
Aching wetness sprang to life between my legs, and in my next breath I felt your hand there, teasing my soft folds with your fingertips. I moaned, parting my thighs to allow you freer access.
"I love your tiny waist, your woman's hips...the way you feel when I'm in you...hot and wet and God, so tight..." 

You dipped lower, one finger slipping inside me, another rubbing my clitoris. I threw my head back, biting my lip as I felt my spasms starting--

"Open your eyes, babe. I want you to watch yourself come."

The sound of your voice worked on me like a drug, compelling me to obey you. The sight of my flushed face and breasts, the damp curls clinging to my cheeks, my forehead sent a hot shock sailing through me--

And I screamed, bucking and jerking against your hand.

The next thing I knew I was lying on my comforter, with you beside me. I stifled a disappointed sigh at seeing you'd already undressed.
But I certainly wasn't disappointed in anything else I saw. Sunshine painted your skin golden, highlighting every ripple of your musculature. I'd never seen a more beautiful male body outside of a museum.

And it was mine. All mine.

"What's so funny?" you asked.

"Just trying to figure out how I got so lucky."

You smiled. "Must've read my mind."

We lay there for a long time, exchanging slow, gentle kisses, our hands roaming each other's bodies, teasing and exploring. Finally you shifted, moving between my thighs, pushing into me so deeply I almost came on the very first stroke.

I closed my eyes, feeling you gliding smoothly in and out of me, riding a wave of pure sensation, my breathing coming in ragged gasps. I didn't know if I would burn up or split apart first.
Wrapping my arms around your neck, I pulled you down to me so that our entire bodies touched, skin to skin. I could feel the pounding of your heart against my breasts, your lips hovering over mine, tasting my breath. 

"God, I could look in your eyes forever," you whispered. "The clearest, deepest blue I've ever seen..."

I sobbed, whimpered, clutching you to me.

"Come with me, baby. I want you to..."

And you slid your hands beneath me, plunging home, driving us both over the blinding white edge.  

We fell asleep in each other's arms, waking in the afternoon. Then -- after discovering that my refrigerator contained only some  very hairy-looking cottage cheese and a jar of apricot jelly -- we got dressed and strolled back across the street to your apartment. 

You made omelettes, bacon, English muffins and tea. I'd never been so hungry in my life. Food had never tasted better.

I woke the next morning alone in your bed. You'd left your robe laying on the comforter and I picked it up, slipped it on, holding the sleeve to my nose, drinking in your scent. 

I could see the lights in the living room, hear you talking to someone on the phone, though I couldn't make out the words.

I glanced past the nightstand. It took me a moment or two to register something different about it. No photo of you and Alex.

In its place was a large rectangular piece of paper, propped up against the lamp. A pencil sketch of me, sleeping, my fingers curled under my chin, lips slightly parted. You'd captured the moment so palpably I could almost feel the breath issuing from those lips, the warmth shimmering off my skin."If this is what you can do with just pencil and paper," I whispered, "I can't wait to see your skyscrapers."

I found you sitting at your drafting table, working. Coming up behind you, I wrapped my arms around your waist. 

"Clients bugging you again?" Off your look, I added, "I heard you on the phone."

"Actually, they've left me pretty much alone, which is amazing, considering how close to the wire I'm running. 'Course, I'd probably be halfway done by now if I hadn't gotten distracted."

"Well, excusez-moi."

You put down your pen, swinging around on your stool to face me. "I cancelled the ad."

For a second I wasn't sure you were serious. "Jake, I never asked you--"

"I know. But I don't need it, or the letters anymore. I've found my answers. My reasons why." You took my hand, kissing the palm, pulling me close again. "Maybe there's no such thing as a once-in-a-lifetime love. Maybe there's just love."

"There is such a thing. There has to be," I replied. "Because I'm looking right at mine."

*   *   *

So now you know me, Jake -- all there is to know. No more secrets. You've left me with nothing to hide, nowhere to run. 

But that's fine with me. I'm done with running. With being a victim. 
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and just lie there watching you sleep, a sweet ache thrumming inside me, a need so strong and desperate it scares me. And then you open those eyes of yours -- God, their intensity haunts me even now -- and start talking to me, and suddenly I don't feel so scared anymore.

I took a journey to the bright midnight and found you there, waiting to lead me out of the darkness. I'm never going back.

You make me feel cherished. Safe. 

I love the way you look. I love the way you work. I love the way you dance.

I love the way you talk, the sound of your voice. 

I love your taste, your scent, the feel of your skin against mine. I love your soft lips, your silky hair.	

I love the way you touch me.

I'd do anything for you.								
				
				With love forever,
						Beth


- The End -