The cell display announced that she had two messages. She stuck the phone to her ear, crossed back to the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of Chicago-brewed Honker’s Ale out of her refrigerator.
“Hi, it’s Mom. Call us, we want to know how you are.”
Samantha rolled her eyes. Mom wanted to make sure Samantha was miserable so she could point out once again what a mistake Samantha had made. She’d stayed with Samantha’s father through some pretty rough times and what made Samantha think marriage was all roses and poetry and passion anyway?
A sip from the bottle, then a longer one. She didn’t think marriage was all roses and poetry and passion. But it should be some roses and some poetry and some passion at least some of the time. No roses and no poetry and no passion day after day, week after week, year after year, and you might as well be living with your brother.
Next message. “Hello.”
Samantha wrinkled her forehead at the throaty, unfamiliar female voice and touched the gold necklace Brendan had given her for their one-year anniversary.
“You were unbelievable last night, Johnny Orion.”
Samantha’s forehead unwrinkled; she rolled her eyes again. Not another one.
“Oh, Johnny, I didn’t think my body could do all those things. Especially that many times. I can’t stop thinking about you. I want to do it all again. I’m wearing black stockings and black high heels, the way I was dressed last night. I’m crazy all over again— I’m so hot for you. I’m touching myself. My hand is sliding down between my—”
Ew.
Samantha pressed the code to fast-forward the message to the end. She really should put a personal greeting on her voice mail instead of the robot announcement of her number, so these women would know she was not Johnny Orion, whoever he was. But for some reason she wanted to feel anonymous, so that even her closest friends couldn’t really be sure they’d reached Samantha Tyler. She was just a number. Protected. Impenetrable. Seven digits with a hyphen in her middle.
The microwave beeped obnoxiously, announcing that it was time to “stir contents.” She deleted the message, the second one left in as many days for this Johnny Orion person. Two women and one last week, all sounding intelligent and articulate, all extolling his apparently unbelievable virtues in bed, all getting his number wrong. He must sleep with a lot of dyslexic women. Samantha didn’t even want to think about how many others had managed to dial it right.
She dumped the steaming overcooked pasta, reformed chicken bits and pallid vegetables onto a plate, grated parmesan cheese over it, opened another beer and looked around for the paper. Something to read during meals to distract herself from how silent they were now. She’d have to go over work files later, a sexual harassment case, discrimination case, the usual mix of wronged people and greedy people. But not yet. A little unwind time first.
The food was edible, the business section of the Chicago Tribune interesting; her concentration shot. She’d have to do better than this if she wanted to get any work done tonight.
She put her elbows on the table, gripping the neck of the beer, and swung the bottle back and forth between her forearms. Johnny Orion. Probably a made-up name—wasn’t Orion the hunter constellation? The guy sounded more like a predator than a hunter. She imagined a professional wrestling announcer introducing him. And nooooow, Johnnyyyyyyy Predator! Samantha grinned and took a long swig of her beer. Whoever he was, he certainly made women happy. Probably some well-hung young stud who serviced older married types.
The Chicago Tribune business section swished off the table and drifted like a giant falling leaf onto the floor. Samantha took her beer into the TV room which jutted like the short side of an L off the graceful sweep of the kitchen and living room. She pushed magazines aside, sat on the couch, legs curled under and sent a look of loathing to the TV—Brendan’s Other Woman. They had a much more passionate relationship than she did with him.
She gave her work files a half-assed try, then when her usually ironclad willpower failed her, she picked up the book she’d been reading for the Eve’s Apple reading group. The online group had been her salvation over the past two years as her marriage had finally dissolved. Except for Lyssa, loyal friend and officemate, her local friends had been so involved with her and Brendan as a couple that the divorce had been impossible to avoid. Even when they weren’t talking about it, the topic buzzed all over them, like killer bees at a picnic.
The women in the online group knew only what she chose to reveal about herself. The discussions were lively and interesting, the books provocative and fun. And Erin and Tess were her lifeline to sanity sometimes. Her closest friends of the bunch had split off with her to form their own e-mail chat/reading sub-group. Last year the fun had been multiplied by Erin’s idea of Men To Do.
Samantha smiled her second smile of the evening. Men To Do Before Saying I Do, inspired by an article in Cosmo which outlined several male “types” perfect for casual affairs, but hardly the stuff of “as long as we both shall live.” The Vain Guy, The Rich Foreigner, the Dumb Jock and Samantha’s personal favorite—The Swaggering Butthead.
Though the experiment so far hadn’t turned out quite the way they’d planned. Erin got the surprise of her life when her Man To Do, Sebastian Gallo, who started out as The Scary Guy, turned out to be the love of her life. Then as if that weren’t freaky enough, Tess had fallen madly in love with her fling, too. Dash Black, supposed to be The Playboy, but turned out he was happy to stop playing with every woman but her. What were the odds?
So far Samantha hadn’t met anyone who fit the bill. She yawned, ignoring the deep-down honest part of her that said she hadn’t remotely been trying, and forced her eyes to focus on the book. When Amber Burns by Elizabeth Jader. About a woman in a happy though unexciting relationship faced with sexual temptation in the form of another man. Samantha read until her eyes and limbs were heavy and begging for sleep, her body too tired even to become aroused by the sensual words. No bed yet. Not until she was so exhausted she’d slip off immediately. Nighttime was the hardest, alone in that dark silent bedroom.
Finally she gave in, went upstairs, brushed her teeth, got into her nightgown, slid into the bed that felt like a vast empty prairie, turned out the lights and stiffened against the usual incoming creep of lonely pain.
Amazingly, tonight it didn’t come.
This was good. This was progress. Maybe divorce was survivable after all, as the self-help books claimed. Samantha punched her pillow into a more comfortable shape, took in a deep breath and sighed out her relief, let herself drift off, brain minus the anxious tumble of questions and confusions.
Moments later, her bed became a jungle of tangled vines and crawling bugs and suffocating walls of trees. Johnny Orion, well-hung young stud indeed, dark-haired, sweat-sheened, ludicrously civilized in tight jeans and spotless white shirt, hacked his way through to her, eyes glowing red like a demon wolf, burning and clearing a path which widened and melted back until the bed was again a bed, sheets smooth and welcoming. But then he changed, morphed into another stranger who came to her and lay over her. Instead of weight and sweat, this man brought cleansing lightness, relief from the sticky jungle heat and confusion of overgrown vegetation. He lifted his head from her shoulder, cupped her unresisting face and touched her mouth with his…
The instant burn of sexual passion shot her awake. She reached down feverishly, pulled her nightgown up and touched herself until she arched and moaned and came alone in the dark.
She lay back, heart decelerating, breath slowing, stunned at how quickly her body had responded to the fantasy, and burst into laughter.
Hot damn.
Samantha Tyler, twenty-nine-year-old divorced mess-of-a-person, was ready for a Man To Do.
RICK GRINDLE, aka Johnny Orion, clasped his hands behind his head, and lay back on the couch, staring at the smooth white paint on his lakeside condominium ceiling.