Not Exactly Strangers Sample
Chapter One
Meg
I REALIZE I’m dreaming. It’s like suddenly waking up, but I know I’m not awake. In my dream, a man lies behind me, naked, spooning me, his groin pressed against my hips. A rock-hard dick nestles between my cheeks. My breath comes in short gasps. My heart is hammering. My entire body is flushed with heat. I reach down and throw the cover off.
He nibbles my neck, not using teeth yet. He reaches over and shapes my nipple, into an aching point. The few times other guys have touched my breasts left me wondering what the appeal was. Now I know.
Why am I not afraid? A stranger is in bed with me, and wants sex, but instead of fear I feel fire. My breathing quickens, my heartbeat pounds against my chest, and his mouth on my neck make me want to demand more.
He sucks just below my ear. I struggle to remain still—I do not want to wake up. A soft moan escapes my throat. His hand moves lower, and my moisture coats his fingers as they slide along my slit.
He rubs the tip of his penis between my lips, wetting it. It seems too large, too thick to fit, and for a moment, I tense. My only experience was in college, and that wasn’t what I call pleasant. Without giving me a chance to decide, he pushes in, stretching me which burns. Within seconds, though, that changes to pleasure as my channel relaxes to accommodate him, each thrust spreading heat through my body until I’m burning. I forget everything. My own name vanishes.
He’s going slow, and it’s not enough to feed this feeling. My orgasm rushes toward me but not quite here yet. I push back against him, needing more friction, desperate for movement, faster, deeper, anything to ease the building pressure. He stops me by holding my hips in place. He thrusts harder. I’m soaking wet for him. Our bodies slap together, and it’s still not as much as I need. I welcome his teeth on my neck, and finally, finally, the tension breaks in a wave of sensation, flowing out from my center.
I jolt awake, gasping for breath, heart pounding. I know it was a dream, but it was so real I’m disoriented to find myself alone in the bed.
That was my first orgasm without a vibrator. True, it was only a dream, but my other sexual experience failed to convince me an orgasm can result from fucking. Truthfully, I found the whole thing boring. This encounter was anything but.
I sit up, grab my dream diary and a pen from my bedside stand, and jot down the details of my first lucid one. Then I realize I can’t describe my dream man. I never saw his face. I write down the things I remember: a short beard covering his jaw, large hands, tall, muscular, how our bodies fit. I leave “big dick” off the list.
None of that is identifying, and for a moment I have the panicky thought that I won’t be able to recognize him if I should see him someplace. Then it hits me how stupid that is. This was a dream. It’s not like I’ll be running into him getting coffee at The Second Cup.
#
It’s Thursday, and Serena and I are meeting at The Second Cup for morning coffee and chat. We get together several mornings a week. I like to bounce plot or article ideas off her, and she expects me to provide a sane viewpoint on the latest drama at Austin Now, the magazine she edits. Being the editor and sometimes reporter of a publication that depends on edgy stories that don’t offend too many of the movers and shakers is a hot seat that makes me glad I work for myself.
The décor blends modern with vintage: exposed brick walls and contemporary art. The air is filled with the aroma of coffee and the sound of indie music, alongside the murmur of conversations. The summer semester at UT Austin has started, and the patrons are an eclectic mix. Students, ranging from artsy types with sketchbooks to tech-savvy individuals on laptops, are sipping coffee while immersed in their studies and creative projects. Business professionals conduct meetings, tap away on their tablets, or talk on their phones. Moms with strollers beside their chairs are leisurely chatting. It’s a mixed group, and we fit right in.
Rena fetches our coffees from the barista—a Cappuccino for me and a Cold Brew for her. Tall and model slim with short black hair, she has a smile bright enough to disarm anyone. It’s one of her most effective weapons. This morning, she is in office casual—a white sleeveless turtleneck and wide-legged linen pants. Next to her I feel like a hobo.
I’m wearing jeans and a grey T-shirt proclaiming, “I’m a writer. Anything you say or do maybe used in a book.” My wavy copper-red hair is pulled into a ponytail. For me, this is dressed up. Casual is PJs on the couch with my laptop.
Rena sits across from me at our high round table. She sips her cold brew then makes a graceful gestures with her cup. If I tried that, I’d spill coffee all over the place. “So, how is your research on lucid dreaming going?”
I take a deep breath and a cautious sip of my hot coffee to give myself time to think. Talking about the dream might put it into some sort of perspective. “I lucked into a lucid dream last night. It was interesting. My first dream about sex, actually. Nothing I can use for my article, of course. Well, I may rethink that. Innovative Thinking is an edgy publication. They would probably like a lurid slant. Assuming I have the nerve to write it.”
“You’re kidding, right? You’ve never dreamed about sex? I’m your best friend. How could I not have known this? Have you considered therapy?”
I laugh. “No, sex hasn’t ever been high on my list. It’s nice enough, I suppose, but I’ve never understood what the big deal is…well, last night was hot, but it was only a dream.”
She shakes her head in disbelief. “You don’t get what the big deal is? Girl, you have been with the wrong guys. But a dream has to be better than ghostwriting memoirs of folks who think they deserve commemoration.”
“Important or not, they are willing to pay me well. On Google, my current client, Senator Harold Cavanaugh, is quite interesting.”
“Yeah? No, you don’t get to change the topic. Tell me the truth. Isn’t lucid dreaming just so much sci-fi bullshit?”
“After last night, I can tell you definitively it’s not. People throughout history have become aware they are dreaming. Aristotle wrote about it, and a number of scientific studies have been done since the sixties.”
“Instead of going to bed early and trying to dream, why don’t you come out with me on Saturday? Austin Now wants an article on trending clubs, and I want some first-hand experience of each one. The club I have scheduled for Saturday night is The Hot Spot. We can have a drink and dance a little in the real world. Meet some interesting guys. When was the last time you went out on a date?”
I have to think a minute. “Ah, two months ago with Dr. Winters, the psychology professor from the University. He was tall, dark, and I suppose, good looking. He wore black framed glasses that made him appear quite erudite.” I take a long sip of my coffee now that it’s cooled a little.
“You wear black framed glasses that make you look like a librarian.”
“Yes,” I say as I self-consciously adjust my glasses. “But I need them to see. I don’t think he does.”
“If all you wanted was to see, you’d have contacts. You use your glasses to hide behind. So, did he ask you out again?”
“Several times, but I’ve been dodging.”
“Why?”
“He kept on trying to analyze me. Rena, I don’t want to have this conversation.”
This is the reason I’ve learned not to share my dating experiences with her. She pretends she’s my shrink. An irritating habit she shares with Dr. Winters.
She ignores me. “Before him, who did you go out with?”
“Six months ago, there was Phillip Newbury, the car salesman. Rena, read my lips. I don’t want to talk about my lack of male companionship.”
“And you didn’t agree to go out with him again, even though he asked, right? Because he bored you to tears!”
“And you know this how?”
“Oh, please. I’m your best friend. I know you only go out with guys you aren’t attracted to. That way, you can’t fall in love and get your heart broken. But you don’t see them again because they are dull. You are disregarding the goal of having fun. Even a wrong guy can be a good time.”
She glances at her Gucci watch and says, “I have to cut out early today. I have an interview with the mayor in thirty minutes.” She got that watch earlier this year for her birthday, a gift from Travis Mahon, tight end for Austin’s pro football team, The Austin Lone Stars. She insists they are just friends, but when I pointed out that most women wouldn’t consider a man who gives her a three thousand dollar watch just a friend, she just winked and said, “He doesn’t bore me.” Me? I don’t have a watch. I make do with my phone.
I down the last of my coffee, close my laptop, and stuff my napkin in my empty cup. I start to slide down from my chair, and she says, “Come on, Mags. Come out with me Saturday night. Let’s see if we can find you a wrong guy who doesn’t bore you.”
I laugh, and before I have the chance to second guess myself, I tell her, “Fine, if that’s what it takes to shut you up. Come by for me?”
“Sure. I’ll be there at nine.”
I slip the laptop into my scuffed messenger bag, Rena picks up her Gucci handbag, and we toss our used cups in the trash. But before we can walk to the door, it opens. A man, tall, at least six foot four, with dark, longish hair and a trimmed beard, steps in. Broad shoulders, narrow waist. I notice his casual dress—jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up—then I lock onto his eyes. They are a piercing green, and I can’t break away. The hair on my neck stands up as though I’m in the presence of an apex predator. He seems harmless, but I know better. He glances at me, curious, smiles, says, “Pardon me,” and goes around us.
Rena drags me out the door. “Well, he is not boring. Want to go back in and meet him?”
“No! What are you thinking? I need to get back to writing. See you Saturday night.”
#
Logan
I go to the counter and order a large dark roast. The barista hands it to me, and I ask, “The woman with red hair and glasses who just left…do you happen to know her name?”
She smiles and says, “Sure. That’s Meg Summers. She’s a local author who ghostwrites memoirs. She lives close by and comes in most mornings.”
“Thanks,” I say as I stuff a bill in the tip jar. “This morning the coffee machine in my office gave up, and my secretary is home sick, so I had to be self-sufficient. I may make coming here a habit.”
I take my cup back to my office and set it on my desk. The woman I nearly walked into keeps intruding on my thoughts. She had honey-red hair with a dusting of freckles over her nose. Her sky-blue eyes seemed to smile on their own. Then her mouth smiled too, lighting up her face. She’s cute rather than beautiful. Not my type at all, but somehow, I keep thinking about her. More concerning is how the word “mine” popped into my head the moment I laid eyes on her. She isn’t mine, nor do I want her to be.
I begin making a mental list of things to do today, but I’m distracted by flashes of her face, her hair, that killer body hiding in a baggy T-shirt. I only got a glimpse, but I would swear I know her. I have an excellent memory for faces, but I can’t quite place hers. The mere thought of her brings my dick to attention. It’s distracting as hell, and I shift in my chair. Suddenly it hits me, she’s the woman in my half-remembered dream from last night. But that’s ridiculous! She merely resembles that woman. It’s weird, but coincidences happen. I brush my uneasy feeling aside as my brother Decker comes in and sits beside the desk.
“Where’s Jackson?” I ask
“At soccer camp every morning for two weeks, so the office is free of the seven-year-old tornado for a few days.”
He starts talking about our current project, but I’m only partially listening. Senator Cavanaugh and his staff flew in today, and two members of our team met him at the airport. Setting up security for him for the rest of the week will be standard—review his itinerary, figure out how many men, how many cars, and travel patterns. It’s routine for us. And the senator is discrete about his schedule—smarter than some clients who use social media to publish their whereabouts every second of the day.
“So, what do you think?” he says.
“I think we could plan this in our sleep.”
“What about security for the writer and the manuscript?”
What writer? I should have been listening! “What do we know about him…her?”
“I’ve been talking about her. What’s the matter with you?”
I bring my mind back to focus on the job. “Tell me again.”
“Okay, the senator is having his memoir written by a ghostwriter, a woman, here in Austin. The goal is to have it available prior to the election next year. It’s not aimed at reelection since he’s retiring, but you can bet he has an agenda, and there are a few people worried. Until it’s published, no one can be sure of what, if anything, will be disclosed, but the timing, coming before the elections, is a concern. Somehow the info about the book leaked, and he’s already received some veiled threats”.
“Add three more contractors.”
“I’m on it.”
“Okay, so we provide security for the author. For how long? Months? How long does it take to write a memoir?”
“Who knows?”
“What do we know about her?”
He looks down at his notes. “Not much. I only heard about her five minutes ago when Axel called in that he drove the senator by her place before going to the hotel. They didn’t stop. Here’s what I know so far. Her name is Margaret Summers. She has been ghostwriting memoirs for about eight years and has done books for some famous people—mostly women, but there have been a couple of men. Lives near the UT campus. Phone and address are here.” He tosses his notebook onto the desk.
I pick it up and begin reading. I say, “She goes by Meg.”
“What? How do you know that?”
“She gets coffee every morning at The Second Cup. I saw her earlier today and asked about her.”
“Well, this job means you better take her off your list. It would be awkward if you added her as one of your randoms.”
“She was never on my list, asshole.” I do not need dating advice from my brother. He’s focused on finding something lasting. Me—not so much. I shake my head to clear the thoughts of Meg and try to focus on the papers on my desk.
As he leaves he says, “See you at lunchtime. I’ll get takeout after I pick up Jackson.”
#
When the door closes behind Deck, I concentrate on handling the day’s issues. When he comes back, lunch in hand, I eat with seven-year-old Jackson sitting on my lap. I never tire of being his favorite uncle. Of course, I’m his only uncle, but he assures me I’m his favorite. Later he plays some war game on Victor’s office computer while Deck and I spend the afternoon bringing our agents, Axel, Marcus, Maddox, and Victor up to date on the senator’s situation.
Once they have all left, I surrender to what’s becoming an obsession with Meg. I get a glass from my bottom desk drawer, pour two fingers, pull out a notebook, and start listing every detail I can remember from last night’s dream. If I find that the reality is different, I can relegate that dream to the musings of a lust-filled mind. Leaning back in my chair, I close my eyes.
I have no recollection of approaching the house. My first awareness is of being in her bedroom. The room is dark, with a hallway night light casting a dim glow through the open door. I can’t see much detail. I have no idea about the color of the room. The blinds or curtains must be closed, since there is no light filtering in from the street. Of course, that’s assuming the house is in the city. My feet are on a low-pile carpet on top of a hardwood floor. The sheets are bright yellow. The bed has a white old-fashioned iron headboard with upright finials. I remember thinking that tying her hands to the frame would be easy.
It’s weird, but during the dream, I wasn’t trying to notice anything, but now, small things come to mind: a Mac Book Air sitting closed on the bedside stand next to a Snoopy alarm clock. Or I’m making them up.
I open my eyes and run my hand through my hair. This is nuts, I have never been into any of that hippy shit. I drain my glass in one gulp and set it down with a thump. I should go to Meg’s house and check it out. That would prove I’m way off base. She probably likes ultra-modern, and I’ll find her living room done in chrome and black leather. Getting invited in shouldn’t be a problem. I have an excuse. After all, the senator is requesting protection for her.
The phone rings, interrupting my musings. Senator Cavanaugh’s aide is full of changes to his itinerary and about a hundred requests. I ask her to email it all. I consider driving to Meg’s house to check out my “dream” observations, but I shelve the idea. I’ll go by tomorrow once I’ve read all the senator’s instructions. After all, I need to talk with her about security. It’s past quitting time, and I have a poker game to attend.
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