Sex and Love Read online

  SEX AND LOVE

  Lauren Hawkeye

  www.loose-id.com

  Warning

  This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id® e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

  Sex and Love

  Lauren Hawkeye

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by

  Loose Id LLC

  1802 N Carson Street, Suite 212-2924

  Carson City NV 89701-1215

  www.loose-id.com

  Copyright © July 2008 by Lauren Hawkeye

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including, but not limited to printing, photocopying, faxing, or emailing without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC.

  ISBN 978-1-59632-721-4

  Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader

  Printed in the United States of America

  Editor: Ellen Tevault

  Cover Artist: Croco Designs

  Chapter One

  I have to start this story by telling you that love is a complicated thing. It runs each of our lives, really: the people we love, the people we don’t. The people who love us. The ones we love who don’t love us in return. And then, to complicate matters even further, there are so many different kinds of love. I love my mother, my dog, even my ex-husband, yet I love them all so differently. It’s a good thing, I think, that all of this love is so innate to us humans, because if we all stopped to think about it, to analyze and dissect, we’d go collectively crazy.

  Three of the people I love most in the world are my best friends from college. They’ve been in and out of my life since I was eighteen, have been loved by me and have loved me in return. And, though I love them all equally, again, my feelings for each are different.

  First, there’s Megan, Megan Jolie. After collecting degrees in business, psychology and engineering, because she didn’t want to join the rest of us in the drudgery of the day-to-day work force, or so she says, at any rate, she has settled nicely into running a small company that sells things on eBay. Secretly, I think that this job pleases her so much more than all of the others did because of the huge discounts on her beloved designer merchandise, but I figure, hey, whatever gets her through the day. I have to say that her impeccable style works for her, too. As what is politely referred to in society these days as a “big woman,” Megan makes no apologies for her five-and-a-half-foot, size-twenty frame; she never has, and she flaunts it accordingly in the Dolce and Gabbana and Christian Dior garments that find their way into her mailbox almost every morning.

  When I first met Megan, back on that first day of English 101, she was actually quite thin, and was pretty, I guess, in an average sort of way. You know the type ‑‑ long, sunshine-colored waves, cornflower blue eyes, cute nose, and a pert butt. The girl next door. But somewhere along the line, she decided life was too short to subsist solely on rice cakes and greens, and that was when she became really, truly, enviably gorgeous. That kind of flesh on another woman might just look puffy and pale, but on Megan it’s…decadent. Succulent. Kind of makes you want to just take a great big bite.

  One of my other best friends has done just exactly that; he dated Megan for precisely one year and seven months, a long, long time ago, back when her idea of a great meal was a grilled chicken breast on top of her dressing-free salad. Jude has expressed his regret many a time that he never got to…well…know her, you know, in the Biblical sense, since she has become large and in charge. Truth be told, I think he’s still kind of hung up on her, at least he certainly was during the short but sweet two weeks he dated me, once upon a time. Since my track record with men has been something short of stellar ever since, I’ve long suspected that Jude, sexy, sexy Jude, has spoiled me for all other men.

  It’s not so much that Jude is gorgeous, though he definitely is easy on the eyes with that rangy build, tight behind, tousled caramel hair, and the intense, dark, dark green eyes. But I think it’s more the conflicting images of his personality that make him irresistible. You know, the classic bad-boy thing, what with his ever-present motorbike, the tight jeans that perfectly mold his impressive package and the aforementioned butt, the thin scar that slices through his left eyebrow, which is the result of a scramble out the bedroom window of a much older, very married woman with whom he was having an affair.

  He was all of nineteen at the time.

  The other side of Jude is the surprising one, the soft heart in the tough shell. Jude works with young adults afflicted with Down Syndrome and has more care and compassion in his big toe than I do in my entire body. Usually when he tells people what he does for a living they laugh in disbelief; rude though it is, and even after knowing him for ten whole years, I sometimes have difficulty assimilating the two images in my head. Still, it works for him, and I’ve never met a man so successful, both in business and in his personal life.

  Aah. Successful in one’s personal life. That’s where my final best friend, Trevor, fails painfully, I must admit. A self-confessed computer geek, Trev would much rather stay home playing World of Warcraft than go out and socialize with real people, with in-the-flesh people. And I can hardly blame him because, while around us, those he’s comfortable with, he is one of the wittiest, most intelligent people you could possibly imagine. Around strangers, he is a clam, one of those stubborn ones that will open only the tiniest slit with a squishy, soft center that so wants to open up and somehow, somehow just can’t. Trevor gives new meaning to the label “wallflower” at the few parties we manage to drag him to, though really, I guess, he doesn’t so much flower as wilt, the wall holding him up instead of the other way around.

  He’s not a bad-looking guy, really. He’s gone from skinny to wiry over the years, despite his disgusting diet of McDonald’s, Pizza Hut, and KFC, and he has a pleasant face beneath his reddish brown hair; a face made cute, almost, with its spattering of toasty freckles; and deep chocolate truffle eyes. His horn-rimmed glasses are even kind of sexy, I think, anyways; it’s just his social skills that need some work. But like I’ve said, around us, the “Core Four,” as we call ourselves, he’s witty and wonderful, one of my favorite people. And, just like the other two, I love him dearly.

  And me? Well, I’m not all that exciting, I don’t think; not like the others. My name is Desi, and if I had to describe myself in three words, I’d say that I’m neurotic, offbeat, and creative. I’m an artist, you see. A damn good one, if I do say so myself. I work in a medium called gouache, which in simpler terms, is a specific kind of paint I love for its bright, true colors. Mostly I do landscapes, but instead of putting them on canvas exactly as I see them, I apply what I like to think of as the “Desi Twist”; that is, I switch around the colors. The sky might be pink, the mountains orange, and the trees blue. Sounds odd, I know, but it works for me, and for a lot of other people as well, it seems, because while sales of my actual canvas works are few and far between, I make a killing on greeting cards. And for those art snobs out there, no, I don’t consider manufacturing greeting cards to be selling out. I want to share my art with the world, and until I become the next Andy Warhol, which I have no doubt I will someday, what better way is there?

&nbs
p; Color is important to me. So important, in fact, that three years ago I started running my life by it. I’ve been through a green phase and an orange phase already; right now, I’m into red, where I’ll stay until the mood strikes me to change again. I love red; it’s such a passionate, energetic color. In fact, it kind of makes me horny, sometimes; it’s so vibrant and full of life, and I think that being constantly surrounded by sexual energy improves my art tenfold. I feel very connected to the color. I think maybe because my hair is red naturally, though right now I have my long, sassy layers dyed a shade closer to a campfire flame, a shade I think sets off my deep blue eyes wonderfully than to the burnished copper of my natural hue. Fire and water; can’t get a much more intense combination than that.

  Jude likes to make fun of me for my color phases, but I don’t really care. If I want to wear a red dress and red shoes and eat red apples and red meat, I’m not hurting anyone, am I? And it makes me feel noticeable, special even, which is no easy feat around Ms. Plus-Size-Model Megan, Jude the hunk, and witty, brainy Trevor. I sometimes think that maybe that’s why I started it, so I could have my own “thing,” my own way to make my tiny, less than spectacularly figured self stand out in a crowd.

  Well, whatever the reasons, I like myself, and I like my friends. No, wait ‑‑ I love them. And myself, of course. And this love for each other is what has, in large part, propelled our lives for so long.

  And that, dear people, is where our story begins.

  Sitting back on the cushy leather couch at Megan’s house ‑‑ we were all there for our monthly dinner together ‑‑ I sipped at my drink (a red strawberry margarita, of course) and studied my friends, enjoying the warm feeling that comes about by just being around the three of them. And maybe, just maybe, from the tequila in my drink, as well.

  “…Every fucking night!” Trevor was complaining about his roommate again, a girl named Lily whose lack of brains was more than made up for with her bust size. I always found it amusing that it was her personality that so irritated him, because most men wouldn’t give two hoots what she did, so long as she did it in the too small T-shirts and Band Aid-size skirts of which she was so fond.

  After popping the lid off of a sweating bottle of amber ale, Trevor took a long, satisfying-looking chug before slamming the heavy steel bottle opener on the coffee table to demonstrate his frustration. Jude studied Trevor’s hand on the heavy metal object before speaking.

  “I still don’t see why it’s such a big deal, Trevor.” Jude couldn’t quite control his smirk as he said it. I figured that, if Jude were in Trevor’s position, he’d know exactly what to do, and then some, a thought that made my mouth twist up a bit, like I’d just eaten a ripe, juicy lemon. “Can’t you just hide in your room, or something? That is, if you’re really dead set on not enjoying the show.”

  “I’d still know she was doing it,” Trevor muttered and took another, smaller sip of his beer. “I’d still be uncomfortable.”

  Megan neatly laid the spoon with which she had been stirring the spaghetti sauce on its little ceramic spoon rest. Reaching for the glass of white wine, a chardonnay that, knowing Meg, was crisp, buttery, and delicious, that sat at her elbow, she said, “Well, Trev, you really don’t have a lot of options here. Ask her nicely to stop, ignore it, or move. That’s pretty much it.”

  “I can’t ask her to stop.” Dejected, Trevor crunched loudly on a rice cracker covered in creamy cheese and herbs from the platter of hors d’oeuvres that was sitting on the coffee table. “She lives there, too.”

  We were all silent for a moment; there wasn’t much else to say. Trevor had his knickers in a twist because Lily, the aforementioned big-breasted, little-brained roommate, liked to walk around naked after her evening bath. He said that, yes, it was great that she was so comfortable with her body and all, but the fact that he was being forced to get comfortable with it himself, through no fault of his own, made him kind of queasy.

  Again, see the lack of social skills there? Most men would take Lily’s naked prancing as an invitation into her pants, or lack thereof, I guess, and would make a pass, but Trev just kept fumbling the ball. Truthfully, I didn’t think he was lying; he seemed genuinely distressed at his situation, and I felt for him, as I’m sure we all did, even as we poked fun at what we assumed was just a prudish reaction.

  What are friends for, after all?

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Trevor had lost some of his verve. He stroked the neck of his beer bottle thoughtfully. I watched his hands as he did so, the artist in me suddenly twitching to sketch the long, tapered fingers; the wide, smooth palm; the bony wrist as they all moved, flowed in a graceful dance. It wasn’t the first time I had admired his limbs, and I thought, again, of what a shame it was that those gorgeous digits did nothing but tap away at a keyboard all day when by rights they should have been composing symphonies or some other bloody piano thing, because they were just that damn beautiful.

  “What do you think she means by it?” Trevor’s eyes were suddenly dark and deep, piercing us each in turn, daring us, and just daring us, to lie to him. Megan and I remained silent. Jude, however, guffawed loudly, pounding his thigh, and I had the fleeting thought he might shoot pilsner right out of his nose.

  “Jesus, Trev, what kind of world do you live in?” Jude calmed himself, mostly, and tried, really tried, to sober up when he saw Trevor’s irate expression. But he couldn’t quite control one last snicker from slipping out, a snicker wrought, I’m sure, by that intense drive that all men have, the one that must be stored in their dicks, that causes insults about testosterone and virility to pour out of their mouths the second one of their buddies mentions sex. It was just something I noticed guys do, and that was why we were all shocked when calm, mild Trevor stood up straight and hurled his beer bottle across the room while shouting, in the loudest voice that I’d ever heard him use, “A virgin one! That’s what kind of world I love in, you asshole! A goddamn virgin one!”

  Stunned, we all looked from Trevor to the wall and watched the pale, foamy ale slowly trickle down, down the pale green paint to drip, with agonizing slowness, onto the shattered remnants of the amber-colored glass.

  As one, we returned our eyes to Trevor. Defiantly, he thrust his chin into the air, though his eyes remained fixated on the wall, at the visual display of his frustration. Not one of us said a word; it was as if he had told us he had cancer or something equally awful, though obviously, while odd, a grown man’s state of virginity was not nearly so serious.

  “Go on; make fun of me,” Trev muttered, fidgeting with a brown rubber band from the bowl of knickknacks that was, as always, in the center of the coffee table. “The twenty-eight-year-old virgin. What a fucking joke. I wouldn’t even know what to do with Lily, even if that’s what I wanted. Which it isn’t.” Obviously needing some space after this bombshell, he turned on his heel and marched down the hall to the bathroom, away from the living room where we three sat, shell-shocked, blinking stupidly like the proverbial deer in the headlights.

  “Aren’t you going to say anything?” Trevor surprised us all with his silent return, and I heard something in his voice besides the anger and apart from the defiance, something fragile and so delicate that it might break if one of us so much as exhaled too loudly. The others must have heard it, too, for in that moment, though I knew, with the knowledge that comes from long-term friendships, that none of us would dare to hurt Trevor with casual words, I could all but feel a warmth extending from each of us to where Trevor stood, quiet and awkward, on the spot where the beige carpeting and the dark slate tile met in a thick, solid stripe.

  It was Megan who finally broke the silence, the silence that, while long, was somehow not as awkward as it could have been. Crossing the room to where Trevor stood, she placed a fleshy, curvy arm around his shoulders, squeezed gently, and released before asking the room in general, “So who’s hungry?”

  * * * * *

  Megan Jolie. Jude Hawke. Trevor Schimel. And me, Desi, short for
Desdemona, Sinclair. Friends for a decade, best friends who have met for dinner religiously on the second Tuesday of every month for as long as any of us can remember, no matter what, though we all certainly saw each other at other times during the month as well. We took it in turns to host, rotating between my red hued one bedroom loft, Jude’s surprisingly cozy, fifty-year-old house; Megan’s posh apartment; and the streamlined condo that Trevor shared with the big-breasted Lily. We all brought food and booze and tales of our lives and celebrated our friendship, the love we had for each other, for hours, hours, and hours until one of us would realize the time and begin to distribute shoes and coats and to herd everyone toward the door. It never mattered that we had to leave because we all knew that any of us could pick up the phone, or stop by, at any time and continue on.

  Chapter Two

  I was stuffed, absolutely stuffed full of Megan’s incredible spaghetti; her gooey, homemade cheese bread; and the tomato, basil, and Gouda salad she had thrown together at the last minute. Still, I couldn’t help but continue to dip crumbly little bits of warm flatbread into the sun dried tomato pesto that sat in a glass dish in the middle of the kitchen table, and I refused to feel guilty about it, since it was a red food after all. No matter how good it tasted, though, I really just looked to prolong the moment, the sappy, Hallmark card-esque feel-good moment, as the four of us sat, or in Jude’s case sprawled, around Megan’s antique oak kitchen table. The sandalwood-infused candles flickered, and the cloying but not unpleasant scents of garlic and oregano still thick in the air. It was during those times I was happiest, on the second Tuesday of every month, when those that I loved more than anything in the world surrounded me.

  I nibbled another morsel of pesto as I listened with a cocked ear to the continuation of Trevor’s story.