eZoul

Rusted Chair Legs

2004-08-11T10:50:00.000-07:00

Thank you for reading the Black Couch.

Abigail, Peter and Tim are gearing up for the second chapter in their adventure with the Armstrong's. In Rusted Chair Legs, Peter begins filming at a 'reclaimed' hazardous waste site in the foothills outside Denver. As is the EPA's way, they got the money to reclaim this site from a deep-pocket conglomorate who had owned the land in the early 70's. When the EPA took the conglomorate to court to get the money, Harold's father had defended the conglomorate and had lost.

Rusted Chair Legs take you through the nightmare of hazardous waste bubbling to the surface of the movie set, Harold's uncle and brother set on revenging his death, and the growing closeness of our three heros.

Posting of Rusted Chair Legs will begin in a couple weeks.

Thanks again for your support and don't be shy about sharing this blog with your friends - and strangers.

Black Couch - Later

2004-08-11T10:44:00.000-07:00

When I woke up, I was in the hospital with Peter, Steve and Sitamar standing at the foot of my bed. I smiled, they all slouched, just a bit.

Peter sat on the end of the bed and between the three of them, I got caught up. Caleb was in another room of the hospital recovering from a bullet in the leg that had shattered the bone. Sally was home – in LA – at her parents house where she would get all the attention she needed. Her injuries hadn’t been serious but Caleb had given her a month off and insisted she get out of Denver.

Roger was under Peter’s care. “For a dog, he certainly knows how to manipulate me.” Peter said. “You’d think he’d saved your life or something.”

Giggling brought a tear to my eye. My stomach was on fire. When I reached under the covers, I found stitches. The boys looked at each other. They're not going to tell me what happened to me.

“You’re awake?” The voice behind Steve was familiar; the doctor who’d stitched up my face. “How do you feel?”

When the doctor looked at them, the boys slunk out of the room. While he examined me, he explained that I’d had surgery to remove the bullet.

I took his hand when he was finished describing the details of the surgery. “Thank you for keeping me alive.” He just nodded as if to say, ‘it’s all in a days work.’

I stayed in the hospital for another day and then got to go home. I got to go back to my own room, with all my things; including Roger who wouldn’t leave the foot of my bed. The first day, we just slept and ate.

The second day, we moved to the back patio. Gardeners were putting down sod, planting trees, and spreading rocks out. They made for a wonderful diversion for all the things I kept thinking I needed to work out; lessons I needed to learn from what had happened with Harold. And, they didn’t seem to mind an audience.

Waking up from a short nap, I realized there was someone on the deck with me. I turned and saw Caleb leaning against his crutches, looking at me. “Hey.” I said.

“Can I get you anything?” The edges of his mouth turned up. “Can I ask someone to get you anything?” I smiled at his crutches and shook my head.

I’m not the hot target any more. Maybe I’ll just rest and figure out what I’m supposed to have learned from all of this later.

Black Couch - Triage

2004-08-11T10:31:00.000-07:00

The heat in my stomach turned to all-out pain. Another shot. Harold collapsed. Steve and Sitamar rushed into the room; guns at the ready.

My eyes burned. I saw the fuzzy outline of Roger lying in front of me. Even blinking hard didn’t bring him into focus. “Is Roger OK?” I collapsed back onto my ankles.

Sitamar was standing at the open window, “Good thing Roger was here.” He closed the window and moved through the rooms, gun ready to shoot anything that moved.

Caleb grunted. He was on his knees – I assumed he was checking on Harold but couldn’t actually see what he was doing. Steve reached around me and checked Roger. “Roger’s got a flesh wound. A couple stitches is all.”

I was so relieved, I didn’t stop a sigh from escaping. “Are you all right?” Steve smiled down at me and I just nodded. I heard sirens in the distance, making their way to us. Steve moved around the end of the bed. “Caleb?”

“Fucker, shot me.” Caleb said. “Check him. Who’s with Sally?”

Sally? She must have been in my room.

“Catherine and Kevin are taking care of her. The ambulance is on its way.” Steve said. “Looks like we are going to need a coroner too.” He pulled the quilt off the bed and covered Harold.

Harold is dead, Caleb and Roger are wounded, Sally must be too. God, what kind of a person am I to bring all this destruction to these people?

“Abigail?” Steve’s gun was stuck in the waist band of his pants. He was pulling my legs out from under me, laying me down on the bed. “Abigail, where are you shot?”

“I’m not shot. Roger is shot? Roger got in the way; I couldn’t get him to move.”

“Roger’s job was to protect you.” Steve’s voice was clear, calm. “The bullet just bounced off Roger. You were right behind him.” He was tugging on the blanket I’d wrapped around me. When he got it loose, he glanced down at me, smiled and stepped away from the bed.

He grabbed Sitamar’s arm, “The target is down.” That’s the last thing I heard; the last thing I saw.

Black Couch - Shots in broad daylight

2004-08-09T14:51:00.000-07:00

Steve was expecting me. He thanked Tim for delivering me and Tim left. I plugged my computer in and sat on Steve’s bed. Steve sat in the old leather Lazy Boy next to one of the large bay windows. He didn’t say anything.

After an hour or so, I was finished with my edits and Steve was asleep in the chair. I put a blanket over him and went to the bathroom. When I came back, Roger was stretched across the end of the bed. I gave him a rub, slipped out of my shoes and jeans and crawled under the covers.

“Sleep well.” Steve mumbled. “I’m right here if you need anything.”

My mind drifted to the night I met Harold then I thought about being at the Grand California hotel with Steve. I am as safe here, in Denver, as I was in LA. Steve’s here to take care of anything that comes up. And, Roger won’t let anyone come into the room. Besides, Harold is a nut job. He can’t hurt me here. Sleep crept through my brain and my muscles relaxed.

Some time later, I heard growling. “What’s that noise?” I mumbled, half asleep.

Suddenly a blood curdling whale came from the end of the bed. “Roger, you’ll wake the whole house up.” I looked over at the Lazy Boy. Steve was gone; the blanket piled on the floor. Roger kept howling.

I shook the sleep out of my brain and focused on the room. Roger was standing on the bed, teeth showing, tail still. There must be someone in the room; someone Roger doesn’t recognize. Sun streamed through the windows.

As I turned my head to look at the clock, I saw Harold. He stood just inside one of the windows. The window was wide open. Where’s the noise from that fancy system Caleb was supposed to install?

Harold’s voice barely penetrated Roger’s barking. “I told you I’d come get you today. Didn’t you get my email?” He took a step toward the bed and the hair across Roger’s backbone stood up. “You should have stayed in that other room. It would have been easier to get you out of here.”

The panic I felt when Roger started to howl was minuscule compared to seeing Harold, in my room, with something in his hand. I looked at the clock; 10:30. Where is everyone?

“Can’t you shut this dog up?” Harold snapped and lunged forward; his arm swung at Roger but didn’t make contact. I saw a gun in his hand. Roger shifted so he was between me and Harold. I’ll never forgive myself if this bastard hurts Roger.

“Roger is my friend. He thinks you’re dangerous. I’ve never heard him make such a racket.” Why isn’t anyone else hearing this noise? I patted Roger on the back to give myself a second to control the adrenalin that was dumping into my veins. He didn’t move. “Maybe if you put the gun down, tried to make friends with him…”

Harold snarled; maybe at Roger, probably at me. He stepped toward the bed and I regretted having taken my jeans off. The last thing I want is for him to see any part of me naked. Roger kept howling. Damn, how am I going to get out of this one?

I lifted up on my knees pulling the blanket with me, tucking it firmly around my waist. Harold lifted the gun. He’s shaking. He’ll never hit anything.

“Roger,” Caleb’s command came from the top of the stairs.

Silence.

And, then an explosion. Heat seared through my stomach and into my face.

Silence.

Another explosion. Or was that two? “Fuck!” That was Caleb.

Black Couch - Sleeping Arrangements

2004-08-06T09:52:00.000-07:00

Dinner was pizza brought in and shared with the Dutcher team. That was the last time I saw all of them together. An hour later, the house was quiet; it was only 10 o’clock and everyone seemed to have disappeared. I sat on the black couch with Tim sitting next to me. He was watching a movie and I was writing.

“Let me know when you get to a break, will ya?” Tim whispered. His finger danced over my forearm with just enough pressure to let me know he was there, but not enough to interfere with my typing.

Ten minutes later, I saved my file and closed the laptop. As I set it on the couch, he pulled me into his lap. I didn’t resist the urge to kiss him. “I have to get back to Location 1A for a movie release.”

“Uh-ha,” I was listening but didn’t want to stop kissing him.

“Would you come with me?” He tilted his head back and my lips moved to his throat. The buttons on his shirt came open easily; drawing me to his bear chest. “Gawd, you’re distracting.”

The tone of his voice got my attention. He doesn’t want to be distracted. I stopped and put his shirt back together. “I’m not sure what I’d do there.” I gathered my composure and rested my butt on his thighs. “Won’t you be busy?”

“Some, but I was hoping you’d like to come with me. You’d get to meet a lot of interesting people, see my house, go to the premiere with me.” He smiled, resting his hands on my legs. “I’d like you to be my date.”

Date? I haven’t heard that word in a while. “I would love to go on a date with you.” I closed my eyes consumed by the sensation of his hands moving up my legs. “Providing Harold isn’t our chaperone.” His lips pressed against my eye lids then my lips.

Kissing Tim stops my clock. I don’t care how long he holds me. When I heard someone in the room clear his throat I realized I didn’t even care who saw us. I’d heard that noise enough times now to know Caleb was in the room trying to get our attention without interrupting us.

Tim pulled away from me a little. I rested my head on his shoulder. From behind me, I heard Caleb say, “The house is secure for the night. Sitamar is on duty. Let him know if you want to leave.” Tim nodded.

“About this sleeping thing,” Tim said.

Caleb must have left the room.

Tim’s lips tickled the skin on my neck as he spoke. “More than anything, I want to sleep with you. But I can’t protect you and I have a strong suspicion you need the protection tonight.”

“Are you psychic now?”

“No but Caleb is acting like he expects trouble and that’s enough for me.” He stroked the scar on my cheek then continued. “Are you going to write more?”

“For a while. I just want to finish a few edits.” I lifted my head. “I’ll go up to Steve’s room if I decide to take a nap.”

“How’bout, you finish your edits in Steve’s room?” His eyes lowered. He doesn’t want me sitting here, in the open, by myself. Nice.

“No problem.” We kissed for a few more minutes and then he led me up the stairs to Steve’s rooms.

Black Couch - Salmon Transceivers

2004-08-05T09:23:00.000-07:00

In a matter of minutes, there were just four of us left in the family room – well five if you count Roger. I reached down and rubbed Roger’s ear to avoid looking at Caleb. His forehead looked like a Florida beach just before the hurricane went inland.

“Tell me,” he eased down onto a chair opposite the couch and sat back. I settled into Tim’s arms. Caleb shifted his eyes between Peter and me.

I picked up Tim’s hand. “Do you know anything about the transceivers they inject into Salmon so they can track them?”

“A little,” Caleb said.

“That’s what I see; what I think is keeping Harold up on what’s going on in this house. It would be easy to inject tons of them just under the carpet and they’d never be detected. I’ve never heard of something that small being able to transmit voices but he seems to know what’s going on so he must have found one.”

Peter nodded, “Caleb, you know of something that could be under the carpets, maybe in the backing?”

“I’ve seen the plans. Didn’t know they were making them yet. If that’s what we have in the house, it’s going to be hard to get them all without tearing up the carpet.” When he spoke to anyone but me, Caleb was articulate, concise but thorough.

“Just tear the carpet up and replace it.” Peter grinned. “It’s just cheap track-house shit anyway. We could use an upgrade.”

Caleb nodded and left the room. “What do you know about tracking Salmon?” Tim distracted me from the noise in the hall.

“Oh,” I squeezed his hand. “I didn’t always write, you know. I spent my early years doing all sorts of jobs.” When his lips pressed against the top of my head, I sighed. In spite of the reality; as Caleb described it, I felt safe, at home.

Peter turned his head away from us as he talked. “Sally will stay in your room until Harold is safely tucked away. That means you need to find some other place to sleep – if you sleep, that is. You have your pick; there isn’t anyone in this house who wouldn’t share a bed with you; except Sally. She works at night.”

I stopped melting into Tim feeling obligated to respond to Peter. “I’ve slept a lot over the past three days. I need to get some work done.”

Peter stood, “well, just let Caleb know where you are.”

I sat up, tugging on his hand. “Where would Caleb like me to sleep?”

It took him a couple seconds to come up with an answer. “I’m sure he’d prefer you slept in Steve’s quarters. They are the only ones on the second floor – harder to get to from the outside and with Steve there, Caleb wouldn’t worry about you so much.”

“And,” Tim said. “You can sleep any where. Caleb’s job is to keep you alive, not to interfere with your life.”

I let go of Peter and turned, picking up Tim’s hand. “Does that mean I could sleep in your bed if I wanted to?” I didn’t have to see to know that Peter had left the room.

Tim pulled me into his lap and kissed me before he answered. “Only if I get to sleep with you.” After another kiss, he added, “and, if no one is listening to us.” His cheek color turned a pale rose. “I don’t want anyone else hearing you… snore.”

Black Couch - House Meeting

2004-08-04T09:29:00.000-07:00

It only took Steve an hour to make all the arrangements. We took the limo to the airport. The two men who’d gone shopping with us joined us on the plane. Steve stayed in the cock pit for the ride home. I pretended to write but mostly, I couldn’t stop thinking about Harold and what he might have planned. Vacation is over.

Two of the Mutant Mercedes were waiting for us at the airport in Colorado Springs. Steve and I jumped in one; the other was being filled with duffel bags and boxes as we left. When we pulled into the driveway, I saw two more vehicles; all looked the same as the one I was in.

“How many of these ugly things does Caleb have?” I pointed to the fleet as we waited for the garage door to open.

“You don’t like the G Class? It’s a modern classic.”

“Well, I look at my SL and,” I hesitated expecting to see my car in the garage but it wasn’t there. “Where’s my car?”

“Caleb will replace it if anything happens to it.” Steve pulled into the garage and held on to my seat belt until the door closed. Then he released my seat belt and got out of the car. Caleb was standing in the doorway to the kitchen; watching.

I got out of the car and opened the back door. Just as I was about to turn; my hands filled with laptop and clothes; hands suddenly encased my waist. I jumped, hitting my head.

“Jesus, sorry.” Tim’s voice cascaded down my back. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” I dropped the stuff in my hands and turned around. I liked the feeling of being trapped between the car and him; between him and anything. His arms wrapped around me and his lips totally engulfed mine. Several minutes later, he pulled back just barely. “I missed you.”

He grinned and started to step away from me. I pulled on his sweater, “More please.” I didn’t have to ask twice.

We both jumped when the garage door opened a few minutes later. The kitchen door opened again and Caleb leaned against the door. My car pulled in next to us and the garage door closed. A woman pulled herself out of my car, nodded at Caleb and then stared at me for a second before going into the house.

“That’s Sally.” Tim nudged me away from the car. “She only looks like you.”

“I’m freakin’ out. That woman looks just like me. How did you find her? What is she doing here?”

Caleb cleared his throat and Tim nodded. “We need to go in.” He took my face in his hands. “Caleb will explain everything.” He kissed me one more time and we headed for the kitchen.

This I’ve got to hear; Caleb explaining what’s happening. Caleb, the master of the one word sentence.

The black couch that Peter and I had found the day he went with me to the doctor’s was sitting in the family room. A dozen people were standing, sitting, leaning around the room. All wore black T-shirts with the Eye of Ra on the pocket and black cargo pants. All, even the two women, had bulging biceps and deep tans; just part of the Dutcher Enterprises uniform, I guess.

Tim led me to the couch but before I sat down, Peter swept me off my feet. “Gawd, it’s good to see you again.” A round of muted laughter came from the Dutcher team. After a bear hug, Peter set me down, slapped Tim on the back and plopped onto the couch. “Ok, Caleb. What’s the plan here?”

Caleb’s eyes sparkled. I got the impression, he liked being in the position of leader. “With three targets – two passive, one active, the plan is more complicated than normal. Smith starts filming this week at a remote location in the foothills. Fender has to return to Location 1A within 48 hours. McCann is the hot target.”

Roger padded into the room and laid down at my feet; as if he were part of the team, just waiting for his instructions. Caleb kept talking. “Steve will take point on Smith. Sitamar has Fender.” A dark skinned man nodded without wrinkling the skin on his neck. “I’ll take McCann.”

Everyone stood at attention. They all seemed used to this whole procedure. “We have removed all the devices we found but Smith tells me there are more. We all remember what happened the last time we ignored him so we are still at red alert. Our sweep team is on its way from the airport; with full cooperation from the locals of course.” Quiet giggles erupted.

I nudged Peter in the ribs. “Have they looked under the carpets?” I whispered.

“I don’t know.” He turned to Caleb. “Have you looked under the carpet?” He pointed at me and my face burned.

Caleb glared at me. The skin above his eyebrows began to wrinkle. “Where?”

So, Steve is right. Caleb doesn’t have real conversations with hot targets.

I swallowed. Everyone was looking at me. “Closets, mostly.” He was still glaring at me. “They have no metal to detect and a tiny energy source.”

Peter frowned at me. “All I can see is that someone is still listening. How do you know the location?”

“I just asked.” I knew Peter would understand and didn’t care if any one else did.

Caleb nodded. The subject of listening devices was closed, for the moment. He turned back to his team, “Sally has been here for three days.” He nearly smiled. “The resemblance is uncanny.” Everyone looked at the woman I’d seen drive my car into the garage and then to me. She had blue eyes instead of green and, this close; I could tell her hair was a wig. But, at a distance, it would be hard not to mistake us for the same person.

She stepped forward. “Hey, ya’al,” her southern-bell accent dripped saccharine. “I’ve been followed all day by a gold, late model Lexis. I’ll run the plates when we’re done here.” She stepped back to the wall.

“It won’t be Harold.” I mumbled. Caleb’s glare was beginning to scare me. I wished I hadn’t said anything. He kept staring. OK, I’ll explain this one thing and then I’ll keep quiet.

“It’s just one of his investigators. Harold knows I left town when he was in jail. He’s looking for me. Sally’s tail is just in case she leads him to me. Anyway, he wouldn’t waste his precious time driving a Lexis; that would be an insult to his collection of Jaguars.”

The corners of Caleb’s mouth turned up. “We’ll keep Sally in position and keep her tail busy.” Sally nodded. “We have 48 hours to convince this psycho to back off. Otherwise, Sitamar is going to have his first hot target.” More mumbling erupted from the team. No one seemed to want me to be Sitamar’s first.

Tim’s lips pressed against my ear. “Sorry to spring it on you like this, but I was hoping you’d come with me when I leave tomorrow.” My smile raised my ears. Tim kissed my cheek and our attention returned to Caleb.

“Eyes open, everyone. Let’s clean this one up quick.” Caleb dismissed his team.

Black Couch - Pretend Vacation

2004-08-03T12:13:00.000-07:00

I have never really enjoyed shopping; all the people, the snobby sales clerks, all the choices that have to be made. But, shopping with Steve was a most pleasurable experience. He knew exactly where we were going, the floor plan, where to find what he thought I’d like. I hid out in a dressing room and clothes just magically appeared. It dawned on me after the second wave of sun dresses and shorts arrived that Steve wasn’t selecting the clothes. He was standing outside the door while someone else got what he wanted.

At the first store, we had a very short, intense discussion ending with me giving in and letting Steve pay for everything. The clincher was when he said it was his fault we had to be here instead of at home. It seemed to be his way of apologizing for our sudden travel. He is probably going to voucher everything to Dutcher Enterprises anyway so why not?

On our way to another store I asked him, “Should I get something Caleb would like since he’s backing this shopping spree?”

Steve laughed. “Caleb doesn’t like women with clothes on.”

“Well, then,” I smirked. “Caleb will just have to fantasize.”

It was dinner time when we got back to the room. Steve explained that we could go out or have something brought in; it was my choice. “Wouldn’t it be easier for you if we didn’t go out?” I asked.

“It isn’t about what’s easy for me. Under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t even know I was here. You’d just go about doing what ever you wanted and I’d be watching; keeping you safe.”

“Yes, but this isn’t normal is it? I do know you’re here. And, I know the two other men are here." I glanced over to the door. "All this makes me very nervous.” I

The door was closed, locked, and the delicate safety chain was in place. But I knew none of that mattered. No one was going to get past the two Caleb-sized men stationed just on the other side of the door. The same two men who had been following us around all day.

Steve raised an eyebrow and he thought for a moment. “Just tell me what you’d like to do.”

“I really wished I had my laptop. Traveling always gives me ideas for characters and stories.”

“I’ll have one sent over. What else?” He picked up the phone pad and pulled a Monte Blanc pen from one of his pockets.

“I was thinking,” I smiled at the thought that I could have anything I wanted. “Since you are focused on other things, I wondered if you’d mind me doing some cooking.”

“Cooking?” He grinned. “You want to cook while you are on vacation?”

“Cooking is what I do when I’m nervous; stressed. In Denver, you own the kitchen, I didn’t dare interfere. But here, I thought you might not mind and I could maybe de-stress a little. Isn’t that what people do on vacation?”

Within two hours, a laptop; just like the one I’d left in Denver; arrived. The next morning, the kitchen was stocked with everything imaginable and Steve promising if he’d forgotten anything he’d get it for me.

Normally, I’d restrict myself to making things I knew I could eat before they spoiled but I was on vacation and I knew there were people in the shadows who needed to eat. So, I baked what ever came to mind. Steven had the hotel Chief send up recipes if what I wanted wasn’t in the books that he’d brought in. And, once in a while, he'd sit at the counter watching me. He’d offer suggestions to add a pinch of this or that and we talked about other trips we’d made to Disneyland, our jobs, the weather.

For three days, I got to write, cook, and take naps. Every evening, we watched the fireworks from the balcony. Every morning, the left overs from the day before were gone and I got to start all over again. Harold was on another planet; one I didn’t think about unless I saw Steve on the cell phone he’d bought at the airport.

When Steve sat down to lunch on the third day, he had just talked with Caleb. “We can go back any time you want. They found the cameras; they were all over the house. He had someone on the outside monitoring and sending the images to that prisonlife email address.”

“Where is Harold now?”

Steve frowned, “he’s out on bail. The trial isn’t for six months.” Steve leaned forward. “He knows we left from Colorado Springs the night he was in jail. It won’t take him long to find out where we are. Caleb wants us back in Denver where he can watch after you.”

“Fuckin’ Harold. I was thinking we'd go into the park this afternoon.” I pushed my plate away composing myself. “Let’s go home, then. You know how much I hate all this crap but I think I’d hate being dead more. That’s what Harold has in mind for me, isn’t it?”

Steve didn’t say anything for a few minutes; that was his answer to my question. “You’re welcome to cook as much as you want in Denver?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Oh, yeah. With Harold on the loose I’m going to need to cook just to keep from panicking

Black Couch - Secret Travel

2004-08-02T08:22:00.000-07:00

Steve was standing just inside the door when I walked out of the bathroom. He was wearing a black T-shirt with the Eye of Ra embossed on the breast pocket and black cargo pants. And, the bulge in his side pocket looked more like a gun than a cell phone.

He smiled. “Don’t let Caleb spook you. He’s got this rule about getting involved with the target – that would be you. He thinks if he uses full sentences; is conversational, he’ll loose his distance and won’t be able to protect you if that were necessary.”

I’m standing there thinking this is valuable information but my brain can’t get off the email, Steve’s gun, where am I going. I just nodded, knowing I’d understand later. Steve took my elbow and led me out of my room, through the kitchen, into the mutant Mercedes.

We drove to a private airport in Colorado Springs; about an hour away. A small plane was waiting for us. The logo on the side of the plane was the eye of Ra. Dutcher Enterprises was written below the symbol.

Steve sat me down in one of the over-sized leather chairs, fastened my seat belt and went to the cockpit. He and the pilot started their check list. Under normal circumstances, I’d be asking a million questions – slowing down the check list. Today, I just looked out the window.

In 20 minutes we were airborne and Steve joined me. “Where would you like to spend the next few days?”

“Don’t you have to file a flight plan? Don’t you have to know where we’re going before they let you take off?” I flashed for a second on being in a private jet with a man I didn’t know running away from a man who was stalking me. I had to shake my head to hear what Steve was saying.

“You watch too many movies. We filed a flight plan for LA so we could take on enough fuel to get us anywhere. All we have to do is revise the plan.” He asked again, “where do you want to go?”

“I haven’t been to Disneyland in years. Can we do that?”

Steve smiled and returned to the cockpit.

“Abigail?” Someone was shaking my shoulder. “Let’s go to Disneyland.” First a wave of shock swept through my brain: I’ve been sleeping; uninterrupted, no screaming nightmares; just sleep. That was replaced by confusion: Where am I?

When I sat up and saw Steve, it all came back to me. He smiled and offered me his hand. “It will take us about an hour to get to the hotel. We’ll be joining a lot of other people headed the same direction. I’m glad you were able to sleep.”

“Me too.” A stretch limo waited next to the plane. The ride to the hotel was quiet. Steve pointed out a few things but mostly I just watched the dry, polluted scenery pass by; content to let my brain wake up slowly.

Steve checked us in. The suite was beautiful; full sized kitchen, living room with a balcony that overlooked Cinderella’s castle and three bedrooms. Everywhere I looked were subtle reminders that we were at Disneyland; Mickey faces carved into the chair legs, Minnie woven into the sheers, Pluto embossed on the notepad next to the phone.

“We are going to be here for a couple days so we’ll need to get more clothes.” Steve had finished inspecting all the rooms. “Do you want to go shopping first?”

“I suppose that’s the logical thing to do.” I waited until Steve was standing in front of me. “What are the rules while we are here, Steve?”

“Rules,” He repeated. “Don’t go anywhere without me. Don’t call anyone, answer the phone or use your email accounts. Don’t worry about anything; pretend you are on vacation with your best friend.”

The first two were easy. The third one I might have trouble with.

Black Couch - Junk Mail

2004-07-30T07:43:00.000-07:00

When I returned to the kitchen, Steve was cleaning up. I set Caleb’s phone on the counter and went back to my room. I hadn’t turned my computer on yet today and it was past 9 o'clock at night. My fingers were itching to type; my brain full of ideas and story lines.

Sunday was the day I didn’t have to write in a straight line. I allowed myself to close my eyes, turn my internal editor off, and just let it flow. Around 11, Tim stepped through the door. He lifted my off my chair and over to the window seat.

Just before we sat down, someone at the door cleared his throat. Caleb stood with his hands behind his back; his phone back in his pocket. Tim left me at the window and they talked for a few minutes; just quiet enough so I couldn’t hear what they were saying.

Caleb left and Tim led me to the bed. “Caleb hasn’t had time to install the alarms. He doesn’t want you hanging out next to the windows so I guess we are stuck with the bed.” His grin displayed absolutely no remorse.

The next time I looked at the clock, it said 12:45. Tim was standing over me; we were both panting. His hands had covered every inch of me and his lips had penetrated my clothes leaving my skin moist, warm. Not only was he a great kisser, but he seemed to enjoy doing it.

He kissed my knuckles and left me, breathless, laying on my bed. I waited for my heart to slow to a normal rate and took a cold shower, pulled on my favorite oversized T-shirt and went back to my computer. When I opened my email, there were ten messages; eight from my publisher, one from the bank and one from 98341@prisonerlife.com. The subject line was blank.

My heart was suddenly racing out of control again but it didn’t feel good like it had an hour ago when Tim left my room.

This email is from Harold. I didn’t ever give him my email address. Doesn’t matter, Abigail. What are you going to do?

I’m no tech-know-wiz but I do know that some pretty destructive things can be carried along by an innocent looking email. This email was already tainted so I decided to be safe. I pulled out CDs and backed up the entire computer before opening the email.
It was long, several screens. I got read the first paragraph.

“You made that pretty boy leave your bed. He’s not good enough for you, is he? I’m so pleased you’re saving yourself for me; for our wedding night. You don’t need any of those other’s. They don’t love you the way I do. I’ll come get you tomorrow. You won’t have to be their whore any longer. You’ll be my wife soon.”

Shaking, I printed the email and left my room; heading for the kitchen – don’t ask me why. “How could he know that Tim was gone? What sort of sick, delusional mind could think I’m going to marry him?”

“Hey.” Caleb startled me. The papers fell out of my hand and I reached for a knife. “Easy.” He nearly smiled.

Steve joined us – still wearing his plaid shorts but he’d lost the T-shirt. “What’s going on?”

Breathe, I told myself and visualized the ice cave I always saw when I meditated. I picked up the paper to give myself time to steady my voice. “What do the laws on Stalking have to say about electronic intrusion?”

Caleb took the papers and began reading. Steve took the knife out of my hand and returned it to its slot in the knife block on the counter behind me. He was watching Caleb; waiting for a reaction; holding my hand.

“Fuck.” Caleb mumbled. He repeated the word as he continued to read sounding more irritated as he went. He didn’t read the second page. He just handed it to Steve and waited.

Steve read for just a few seconds. “He must have video in her room. How’d he do that? I swept that room right after the first incident.” He looked up. “He’s in jail. How’s he getting images of her bedroom?”

Caleb took my shoulders and turned me toward my room. “Get dressed. You’re leaving.” He didn’t exactly push me; more like a gentle shove. “Use the bathroom.” He must think the camera can’t see me in there. Or, maybe that’s his way of telling me I won’t get another chance to use the facilities for a while.

I’ll do both; just in case.

Black Couch - Harold Armstrong – Card Number 98341

2004-07-29T10:01:00.000-07:00

On the ride down the hill, Tim asked questions about my childhood, career, about writing and being published. I wrapped my hands around his waist – under his jacket – and got so caught up in the conversation, I was surprised when we pulled into the drive way.

“That didn’t take long.” I said.

“Any time you want to go back, just let me know.” He took my helmet off and kissed me before letting me off the bike.

Peter, Steve and Caleb were standing at the kitchen counter eating when we walked in. Steve and Peter were wearing loose fitting, plaid terry shorts and torn (but clean) T-shirts that didn’t match any of the colors in their shorts. Both had wet hair, like they’d just stepped out of the shower. Caleb’s black T-shirt looked like it had never been washed. It was neatly tucked into pressed – god, they look starched – cargo pants. Clipped to his waist band was a pager. One pocket bulged with the outline of a cell phone.

Peter smiled, “Good ride?”

“It’s a Norton,” I giggled. “Good is the only option.”

“She learns fast, doesn’t she?” Peter nodded to Tim.

Tim helped me get out of my jacket then rested his hand on my waist. “Everything all quiet here?” He asked Caleb.

“Done.” Caleb uttered.

Steve put his fork down and filled in a few of the details. “Peter has filed charges against Harold Armstrong for trespassing and stalking. Armstrong will be in jail tonight and arraigned tomorrow morning. He’ll probably be released on his own recognizance given he’s such a fine upstanding member of the legal community.” Disgust dripped from Steve’s words.

Peter stared at me for a minute. “That means he’ll be out by noon. But we have a restraining order now and if you see or hear from him, we’ll toss him back in jail.” He scowled. “You will tell one of us if you see him, won’t you?”

My stomach cramped when I looked into Peter’s eyes. He’s so angry. “I’m sorry I got you all involved with this.”

Tim interrupted. “We are your friends. Being involved with this is just one of the many pleasures.”

“Just tell us if you see him.” Steve’s eyes were clear, alert. I nodded. I didn’t want to argue about this any more.

Peter started to say something when Caleb’s cell phone chirped – a single C note. He flipped it open, grunted, nodded his head and handed the phone to me.

I raised an eyebrow but Caleb said nothing. “Abigail McCann,” I spoke into the small phone.

“Good evening, Ms. McCann. This is Detective Stanley Warren.” He cleared his throat. “I wonder if you’d have a few minutes to talk to me.” I’d met Stanley at the hospital the night they stitched up my face. We hadn’t exactly hit it off. He wanted me to ‘jail the bastard who did this to you, excuse my language.’ And, I wanted to just go home and let the universe take care of Harold.

I looked around and saw four men, intent on hearing my response as if they knew who was on the phone and what he was asking of me. “You know my feelings on this Detective Warren.”

“Yes, I certainly do but you would be talking to me as a witness, not a victim. Your friend Mr. Smith claims Armstrong is stalking him. Smith even got a restraining order. I’d just like to hear your version of what happened this morning.” He paused. Silence forced him to add, “for the record.”

Maybe it would do me good to talk to someone; a professional, about this whole thing. Stanley was offering; he wasn’t interested in developing a friendship with me. Maybe he could help me see this more objectively. “Fine.”

Without thinking, I walked out of the kitchen and into my room with Caleb’s phone. I sat on the window seat and told the detective everything I remembered about Harold’s visit. The conversation ended with me agreeing to turn the ring over to the police as evidence and Stanley thanking me for my cooperation.

Harold Armstrong was ‘in the system’ as Stanley put it. Harold had tried impressing Stanley with his connections but Stanley didn’t care. A crime had been reported and Harold was a suspect.

Caleb, Steve, and now Stanley. With all these professionals after Harold, even he didn’t stand a chance.

Black Couch - Food or Sex?

2004-07-28T15:10:00.000-07:00

What am I doing? He’s an actor. He could be just pretending he likes me. He’s acting normal, sane but what if he’s just like the others?

Funny how mind and body don’t always react to stimulus the same way. My mind was coming up with tons of reasons why rolling around on the ground with Tim wasn’t a good idea while my body was completely ignoring all the signals. His lips were like silk and his arms wrapped around me made me feel like nothing would ever hurt me again.

“Tell me what you like.” His lips vibrated the skin just beneath my ear. “What can I do to you that would make you smile?”

“Women in movies and books always know the answer to that question.” I relaxed, lying on my back looking up at the sky. “Myself, I have no clue. Everything you do turns me on. That’s as far as I’ve gotten.”

Tim grinned and lay next to me; putting my hand on his chest with his on top of it. “That’s enough for now.”

It took several minutes before I was breathing normally. I almost wished I wasn’t. And, then I realized I was lying next to Tim Fender, in the middle of a meadow, miles away from anyone. That’s enough for now.

We spent the rest of the day talking, kissing, rolling around on the grass. I’d never been with a man who didn’t just rip my clothes off and get down to business. When I asked, Tim confessed that had crossed his mind a few times. At the end of that discussion, I was convinced it would happen; just not today.

“You are an uncommon man, Tim Fender.”

“I’d like to think I am just human.”

As the sun reached the tree tops, Tim announced, “I’m getting hungry.” He smirked at me, “for more than just you. How about you?”

Tough choice. I rolled over on top of him, straddling his torso. I was honestly thinking about standing up. But then he rose up and kissed me and I forgot the question.

Quite some time later, he pulled me up off the ground and brushed the grass off my back. I did the same for him; spending more time brushing off his butt then there was grass in the meadow. He didn’t seem to mind.

Just before I put my helmet on, Tim kissed me. “Thanks, beautiful.”

On the way home, we found a road-stop burger joint with a parking lot full of trucks. We ate at a picnic bench with half a dozen truckers. They asked about the Norton – evidently anyone who drives a Norton is OK in their book.

By the time we headed to the bike, the sun was setting. We went a few miles to a look out and watched as the Denver sky turned a dozen different colors and the city started to twinkle. Tim’s arms encased me in a cocoon. His kisses were gentle, delicate; not the deep passionate ones from the meadow.

I wouldn’t say no to either kind of kiss from him.

Black Couch - Trust

2004-07-26T08:41:00.000-07:00

“What will Caleb do with Harold?” I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to know.

“As far as Caleb is concerned, Harold trespassed. I’m sure the police have him in custody by now.” Tim leaned around and looked at me. “Caleb will take care of this. You don’t have to think about it anymore.”

“Even with it taken care of I still feel there is something about me that attracted him; that I deserve being treated the way he treated me.” My muscles clinched. This is the one thing I swore I’d never say out loud. I swore I’d never acknowledge the train of thought that surfaced every time I let myself like Tim.

Tim was quiet for a moment. “Do you think you are the first woman Harold's hit?”

Geeze, he’s right. “Good point.”

He tightened his grip around my shoulders. “It isn’t you. Harold is just a whack job.”

Sitting this close to Tim, the power of thinking I attracted Harold – and could attract another man just like him – began to dissolve. Tim started humming Tracy Chapman’s, Give Me One Reason.

“One of my fav’s.” I mumbled as my foot tapped out the rhythm. I never could remember all the words; neither could Tim but we sang anyway.

The thoughts I had of attracting another man like Harold began to shift. Harold is just a whack job.

When he finished the song, I sighed. “I didn’t expect this, you know? Meeting someone like you, I mean. I’m a little afraid to admit being glad we were told to leave the house.”

“What do you want to do? We have the whole day.” His fingers slid down my arms and all my goose bumps rose to attention. When I didn’t answer, he said, “Usually, I’d suggest we find a room with a bed,” His lips pressed against the hyper-sensitive skin just under my ear.

“But you’re not interested in taking me to bed?” Disappointment leaked into my voice and I shifted away from him.

“God, no! That’s not what I meant at all. I just think about other things with you.”

“Like?”

“Like trust and honesty. Friendship and openness. I think about the future and want you there with me.”

“Fuck.” I mumbled and rose to my feet. Out of the frying pan into a nuclear holocaust. Why can’t I just have a normal relationship?

Tim was right behind me. I had the same feelings about him but didn’t know how to admit it – even to myself. The first time I saw Tim’s face instead of Harold’s fist when I closed my eyes, I knew he’d gotten to me. It’s those puppy-dog eyes and that gorgeous body. I never was able to resist a man with good muscle tone.

OK, Abigail, get a grip. What are you going to do? It’s a long time until dark and you are too far up a mountain to walk home. Are you going to tell him you feel the same way?

Tim is a smart man. He stood just out of reach, behind me where I couldn’t see him. And, he didn’t say anything. Didn’t push. I stopped in the middle of the meadow remembering something my mother used to tell me, ‘gifts that come when you aren’t expecting them are the most fun.’

“You scare the hell out of me, Tim.” I turned and stepped toward him. “You’re intelligent, polite, gorgeous – all the things the others I’ve known aren’t.”

“But?” He matched my step.

“I’ve never had much luck with men.” And, you are most definitely a man. “I’m not sure what I want to do here.”

His hand wrapped around my neck. “Do you trust me?” His lips pressed against my forehead.

“With my life.” He kissed my cheek. “With my soul.” He kissed my eye lid. “With my body. Yes, I trust you.” His kisses made me feel like a virgin. Every hormone in my body rushed to places I thought had died the first time Harold hit me.

“Do you think about sex? With me?” Tim kept kissing my cheek while he talked.

“I look at you; you touch me and that’s all I think about.” He lowered us to the ground; his lips busy the whole time.

He laid me on my back and hovered over me, looked at me. “God, you’re beautiful.”

“You keep saying that and I’m going to start believing you.”

“Believe,” he grinned, wrapping his arms around me.

Tim Fender is a great kisser.

Black Couch - Lucky Me

2004-07-23T10:26:00.000-07:00

The setting was perfect; Mother Nature at her best, but all I could think about was Harold and that gaudy, awful ring he’d tossed in my lap.

Tim interrupted my train of thought, “would you mind if I…” He scooted around behind me; straddling my legs like he had the bike. This could distract me from thinking about Harold.

“You’re thinking about what’s going on at the house, aren’t you?” His lips were close to my ear. I lowered my head, ashamed of myself. “Where did you meet him?”

Tim’s arms draped across his knees. I folded my hand in my lap and looked out over the valley; thinking, remembering. “We met in a bar. I needed some background for the book and was there with my laptop; doing research. I remember I had worn my ugliest, sloppiest sweatshirt and a pair of oversized jeans. I just wanted to capture some details to make a couple scenes in the book more believable.”

“I remember the scene in the bar. I thought it was a place in LA that Peter and I go to a lot. Didn’t occur to me there were places like that everywhere.”

“So, you really did read my book?”

Tim just nodded.

“Anyway, Harold wasn’t interested in dancing and he asked me a lot of questions about writing; convinced me he was truly interested so I accepted his invite for dinner. I hadn’t been out on a date in too long; my screening devices were out of shape.”

“When did you first think he might be a few words short of a contest?”

“Nice way to put it.” I shook my head. “I’d lived with him for several months when he came home one day without his briefcase. I’d never seen him without it – even at the club the night we met, he had it with him. When I asked if he’d lost it, he back handed me. I bounced off the wall, picked myself up and left the house. I should have just stayed away.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Three months. I went back, he hit me again, I left again. The third time, I waited until he went out of town on a business trip and took all my things with me. I put them in storage and went to my favorite coffee shop to figure out what I was going to do next.”

“That’s the day you met Peter, isn’t it?” Tim’s arms wrapped around me. “Lucky me.”

“Lucky me,” I whispered and leaned back.

Black Couch - Great out-of-doors

2004-07-22T09:57:00.000-07:00

We only sat for a couple minutes before Caleb came into the room; gliding across the carpet without making a sound. Nothing in his expression revealed his mood or what might be going on in the back yard. Tim rose off the couch. I stayed put.

“Get her out of here.” Caleb whispered to Tim. He pointed his index finger at me, “Shoes.” Then he pointed down the hall to my room. “Jacket.” I don’t think anyone would stop and ask questions of him with that tone of voice. As I passed him, almost as an after thought, he said, “Please.”

I grabbed my jeans jacket, picked up my running shoes and a pair of socks and walked back to the living room. Caleb was walking away from Tim; heading for the back yard. “I get you all to myself today.” Tim’s smile lifted his eyebrows nearly to his hair line. He took my hand. “We’re going to take the bike so you’ll need to actually put your shoes on.”

“Ugly.” I tried to make my voice low and gravely like Caleb’s. A mutant Mercedes-Benz; midnight blue with privacy glass was parked next to mine. It looked like something you’d take out into Death Valley to pop wheelies. “Caleb’s?” Tim just nodded and headed for the bike.

I sluffed out of my slippers and sat on the steps. Tim handed me a helmet. “Here, put this on.” He smiled but his eyes were dark, they nearly frowned. He’s in a hurry.

“I’ve never been on one of these.” I mouthed ‘Norton’ reading the only word written on the bike.

Tim straddled the bike and patted the seat behind him. “All you have to do is lean when I do and hold on.” When I sat behind him, he took my hands and pulled them around to the pockets of his jacket. The garage door opened, the bike engine roared and we sped down the drive way.

It was a truly splendid day; warm sun but not too hot; no one else on the roads; blooming wild flowers everywhere. Tim headed the bike into the mountains; taking country roads instead of the freeways. I kept my hands in his pockets and occasionally grabbed for his ribs when he took a sharp corner. After an hour, the wind felt like it was scouring the junk out of my brain. Tim’s heat was dissolving the tension in my muscles.

I pushed all thoughts of Harold and what might be happening at the house out of my brain. We were way out in the country; where you can’t see the houses because they are at the end of long driveways and the road is lined with trees.

“What’s that song?” Tim’s voice surrounded my head. I jumped. He giggled.

“You can hear me?”

He chuckled. “The helmets are wired with mic’s and speakers. I thought you knew that.”

“No.” I must have been humming. This is embarrassing. “Sorry.”

“You have a nice voice.”

Knowing we could hear each other brought back thoughts of the house. “What did Caleb tell you while I was getting my shoes?”

“Just to keep you out until after dark and to go someplace isolated, someplace off the road.” When he cleared his throat, I didn’t have to look into his eyes to know he wasn’t telling me everything.

“This whole thing makes me really uncomfortable. I don’t like the idea of someone else taking care of my messes.”

“Caleb hasn’t had anything to do in months. He and Steve are trained to handle nut jobs like Harold. I think they actually enjoy it.” Tim turned the bike off the dirt road onto a trail. Branches scraped our helmets. “Harold will be history by the time we get back.”

After a few miles, the trail opened up and we were in a large meadow. Aspens stood around in a semi-circle with one side open to a cliff. Below us - way below us - was a young river filled with spring run off.

“Beautiful!” Taking my helmet off. I repeated myself. “Beautiful.” I staggered into Tim, not realizing riding on a bike was a little like being on a ship; it required different legs than land.

“I found this the other day and it reminded me of you.” He supported me with his arm around my waist. “So quiet and so beautiful.” Just a few yards from the bike was an outcropping of rock. We sat and dangled our feet over the edge. The sun was warm. Tim helped me take my jacket off then took his off.

Black Couch - Meditation or marriage proposal

2004-07-21T09:29:00.000-07:00

A couple hours later I took a cushion off the couch and sat on the back patio, crossed my legs and closed my eyes. I hate being confused, not knowing where I stand on an issue. Having Steve and Caleb here had pushed a button I didn’t even know I had.

I’ve always used meditation to center; clear my head of chaos and find answers to the more complicated questions in my life. This was one of those times when I needed clarity. As the sun warmed my body, my mind cleared to blissful nothingness.

When I opened my eyes, someone was kneeling in front of me; in the dirt. I had to shade my eyes from the sun to see who it was.

Harold!

His hands were instantly on my face. I pulled back. “I’m so sorry I hit you.” He was saying but my brain was looking for a way into the house. “I went a little crazy when you left me. You are my life. I can’t breathe without you.”

What kind of bull shit is this bastard slinging now? When I lived with him he barely noticed me and now he wants me to think…

“What would it take?” He grinned, his eyes squinting down to narrow slits. “I know. We’ll get married.” His hand left my face and reached into his pocket.

What a nut case! He slugs me, slashes my face open with a knife and then expects me to marry him?

He pulled a blue velvet ring box out of his pocket and as he lifted it, the lid opened. I heard the bell on the back door tinkle but Harold didn’t seem to notice. He was still grinning. Still staring at me. Still kneeling in the dirt.

“I’ll buy a house just like this one and you can decorate it, just like you did this one. We’ll get a dog so you’ll have someone to jog with, like that big…” His eyes lifted above my head.

Boots came to rest on either side of my cushion. Everyone in this house but me wears black boots so I didn’t know who was standing over me but I was glad he was there. Harold tossed the ring box into my lap.

“Hey.” That gravely voice was Caleb’s – my personal body guard.

“You’re a big one.” Harold was on his feet. At 5 foot 11, 175 pounds, Harold was a twig compared to Caleb. When I started to get up, Caleb’s boot stepped on the cushion. I took that to mean I shouldn’t move.

Harold bowed and winked at me. “We’ll talk later. When you’re not so busy.” He turned and walked across the back yard to the running trail. In just three strides, Steve caught up with him. He grabbed the back of Harold’s shirt and swung him around.

Caleb lifted me off my cushion and set me inside the house. I would have watched to see what happened between Steve and Harold but Tim took my hand and led me through the kitchen.

Meditating helped me realize I didn’t want all this protection but I felt I didn’t have any choice in the matter. They are all so strong – so determined.

“What do you have in your hand?” Tim sat next to me on the couch. He pried the ring box out of my hand. I just looked at it. “This his way of apologizing?”

I nodded. Tim closed the box and set it on the end table. Then he picked up my hand and we sat in silence. I wanted to say something to Tim; something that would explain or excuse what had just happened. Nothing I came up with made any sense.

Brother, can I pick championship losers or what?

Black Couch - Personal Security

2004-07-20T10:35:00.000-07:00

I opened my eyes and looked at the clock: 5:30 a.m. I’d slept for nearly five hours and felt like a new person. Roger padded over to the side of the bed wagging his tail. “How about going for a run with me, Roger?”

His tail wagged his whole back side. I changed, brushed my teeth and we headed for the back door. On the kitchen counter were a leash and a note from Peter. “If you take Roger, please use the leash. He isn’t voice trained.”

As I opened door, I heard a bell tinkle; like one of those cat-toy bells muffled with a layer of cat nip and foam rubber. Roger pulled on the leash; I didn’t stop to figure out where the bell was. Just as we walked off the patio, the door opened – complete with bell tinkling – and I saw Caleb.

“Hey.” He still had his black sweater and black slacks on. He nodded toward the path and I nodded. “Stay.”

Caleb uses words very conservatively.

I was only half convinced he was talking to Roger. The other half of me tugged on Roger’s leash but he wasn’t going any where so I waited. Caleb must have installed the bell on the door so he would hear when people came and went.

He returned in sweats and running shoes. He stood in front of me with his hands behind his back. He isn’t as handsome as Tim but if anything happens, I’m certain Caleb will come out the winner.

An hour later when we got back to the house, Roger headed straight for his water bowl and Caleb locked the door behind me. He nodded to Steve and left the kitchen. “There’s something you don’t see every day.” Steve said.

I picked up the water glass that was on the counter and drank; waiting for Steve to finish his thought. “The last time I saw Caleb sweat was on the beach in Cancun. He had a beer in one hand and a buxom blonde in the other – his idea of a vacation.”

“He’s really agile for such a big guy.” Steve pulled fruit out of the fridge as I talked. “So you work for Caleb?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not just a great cook, then?”

“I have many talents. Cooking is a hobby but it isn’t my job.”

As we made and drank juice, Steve explained that Peter had given most of his security team a month off. Steve agreed to take his month at the house in Denver to look after things until Peter got here for the movie shoot. “I’m still wondering why I didn’t get fired.”

“What do you mean, fired? How can you not do vacation well?” I frowned.

“Look at your face and tell me you don’t understand what I mean.” Steve’s blue eyes stared at my scar.

That's why Peter didn't say anything about it the day they got here - Steve had already told them I'd gotten hurt. I leaned back and raised my voice, “Caleb?”

I knew he was standing just outside the kitchen listening. “Hey,” is all he said when he came around the corner.

“Steve was in Boston getting that fancy stove of his when this happened.” I rubbed my face with the cold juice glass.

“If I’d done my job; found out you were being stalked, I wouldn’t have left you alone.” Steve said.

“I’m not being stalked. Why do you all use that word? I’m just having trouble getting rid of an old boy friend.”

“I’m paid to keep people safe. Doesn’t matter what we call it. If I’d done my job this would have never happened and Caleb wouldn’t be here cleaning up my mess.”

“It’s my mess, Steve. You, Caleb, Peter have nothing to do with it. You all just got caught in the middle.”

“It’ll be taken care of in a day or so.” Steve glanced at Caleb. They were determined, focused; on the job.

I have no idea how to react to this.

Black Couch - Sleep

2004-07-19T09:01:00.000-07:00

We ate at home with Chief Steve serving up a glorious meal. I got several interesting lectures about being famous, having too much money for your own good, and keeping in mind what was really important in life.

I went back to my room as soon as the lecture series was over. Hours later, I was sitting on the window seat when Tim knocked and walked in without waiting for me to answer. “What did you do with your first really big pay check?” I asked.

“I bought a house for my parents; one they didn’t have to work on to keep the roof from falling in their diner. And, I bought my first Jaguar. It was used. I spent a year working on it. I’d probably still have it if Peter hadn’t piled it around a telephone pole.” He shrugged and giggled to himself. He seemed to genuinely enjoy the memory.

“Why is Caleb here?”

“You’re just full of questions tonight aren’t you?” Tim nudged me over and sat around me; his legs on either side so I could lean against him – if I wanted to. He started rubbing my back before answering the question. “Caleb left LA the same time we did but wasn’t scheduled to be here for a couple more weeks. His vacation was cut short because you told Peter something. Caleb is here to resolve it.”

When Tim paused, I knew he wanted me to tell him what I’d said to Peter. I kept quiet. “Caleb is here because Peter asked him to be here.”

“So…” I stopped, took a deep breath, and then continued. “Peter and I chatted the other night after the club.” Tim was quiet. “I told him about Harold, the man who hit me. He was at the club and has been on the running trail with me for the last couple weeks. I think Peter believes Harold is stalking me; that he means to hurt me again. I’d guess that’s why Caleb is here.”

“Caleb and Steve will figure this all out. They’re quite good at their jobs.” His arms wrapped around me. “You are safe here. No one’s ever gotten through to Peter; they won’t get through to you as long as you are here.”

“I was thinking about Peter’s comment about me buying a house and moving out. As big as this place is, it seems a bit crowded.”

Tim stopped me. “You’re not serious, are you? With that idiot out there watching you all the time? If you leave and he hurts you, Peter will never forgive himself. Neither will I.”

His lips pressed against my neck. “I’m just getting to know you. You can’t leave.”

His kisses were soft like raw silk against my skin. Sleep deprivation, animal attraction, I don’t know what it is about Tim that has made me completely forget my resolve to never get involved with another man. He touches me and I melt; like a pound of butter in the Denver sun. God, he feels good.

“Now,” he lifted his lips to my ear. “Will you sleep tonight?”

If what Tim says is true, there’s nothing for me to worry about. There are four grown men and a large dog in the house with me. Who could get through all that?

“I don’t see why not.”

Tim lifted me off the window seat and carried me to the bed. Scrambling, he pulled the covers back and set me down. As he was sitting on the bed next to me, Roger walked in. His eyes surveyed the room. We watched as Roger walked around the room, into the bath and then settled across the entrance.

“Roger will keep anyone from coming in as long as you are asleep. He will let the whole neighborhood know if someone even gets close to the windows. I’ll check on you once in a while and Caleb is just down the hall.” He kissed my forehead. “Do you still see his fist when you close your eyes?”

My cheeks flashed red. Since my stitches come out, that image has changed to Tim’s face. I just shook my head. Tim kissed me again and left; stepping over Roger on his way out.

Within minutes, I was asleep. Just hearing Tim talk about all the defenses and in my heart believing that Harold wasn’t really after me any more, I fell asleep thinking about being on tour with my next book.

Several times during the night, I woke up in a cold sweat; fighting off attackers with no faces. Each time I opened my eyes, Roger was looking at me; his front feet on the edge of the bed. I’d give him a pat on the head; thank him for being so watchful and go back to sleep.

Black Couch - Publishing Success

2004-07-16T09:53:00.000-07:00

A few more rubs for Roger and I excused myself to return to my room. The phone was ringing as I walked in. The publisher of my first book was on the other end. She was desperate for me to sign a contract for three more books. I confirmed I'd gotten the contract and assured her I'd read it next week and get back to her.

I pulled the contract out of the drawer and laid it on the desk; promising myself to review it. But it was Saturday. All I wanted to do was write. It was easy to convince myself the contract could wait.

Hours later, I felt reborn; that's what writing does for me. All the fear and turbulence that I'd kept in my head since Harold's attack was coming out in the characters of my book. In just a couple hours, I'd managed to turn one of them into a wife-beating CEO and another one was now an orphan who molested little boys. I was making notes on how to integrate these character flaws into earlier chapters when Peter and Tim walked in.

"Would you come to dinner with us?" Peter asked. "Nothing extreme like last night. Just dinner." Tim nodded his agreement. I smiled. They looked like school boys in the principal's office seeking forgiveness. What have they been doing all day that makes them feel guilty?

"I suppose I need to eat." I started to close down my computer and mumbled to myself, "I'm not really hungry but now they are here, it's not like I'm going to get any more writing done."

Tim's hand slid across the back of my neck. "Take your time. We're in no hurry." Our eyes met when I lifted my head. He just smiled and left.

I found them sitting at the dining room table a few minutes later. Roger sat at attention; wagging his tail when he saw me. I rubbed his ear and glanced at the table. A pile of mail was stacked neatly under Peter's hand. Tim was holding a single envelope.

"Did you know your mail was being delivered here?" Peter asked. I nodded.

"This is post marked a week ago. Why haven't you opened it? It's from your publisher." Tim shoved the envelope down the table; it stopped just short of falling on Roger's head.

"I don't take rejection very well. As long as this is sealed, I get to hallucinate I'm a writer. When I open it..." I swallowed. "I like that hallucination."

Tim walked to the end of the table and picked up the envelope. "This is a check, not a rejection. Open it, deposit the money and keep writing. You're good at it."

How does he know I'm any good? I write Chick-Lit. He hasn't read my book.

He pulled at the flap like he'd pulled at my dress last night. My temperature rose just watching him open the envelope; like he was stripping my clothes off. He has such wonderfully long fingers. An eternity later, he handed me a letter on gold embossed letter head. Tears puddle in the corners of my eyes. I'm not going to cry.

"You want to look at this?" He handed me a check.

"Fuck!"

"Is that a good fuck or a bad one?" Peter took the check out of my hand. "This is a fuck I wouldn't mind having."

"What the hell prompted them to send me this?" I looked at the letter again. "Fuck!"

Some place outside the racket in my head, I heard laughter. It was me. The letter was an accounting of the books that had sold in the last quarter and a request from the publisher to sign the contract. They were anxious to publish another book from me.

"What am I going to do with all this?" I asked.

"Anything you want." Peter took my hand. "As long as you don't buy a house with it and move out." His arms wrapped around me. "Congratulations. You're a writer."

Black Couch - Roger and Caleb

2004-07-16T09:45:00.000-07:00

When I got back to my room, I slipped into my T-shirt-jammies. It was Saturday; I didn’t run on Saturday’s – too many weekend runners. I curled up on the window seat to watch the sun rise. My T-shirt and blanket smelled like Tim; cinnamon.

Peter thinks Harold is still after me. Tim’s figuring out how to be honest. I’m living in a huge house with two movie stars. What could go wrong?

An hour or so later, someone knocked on my door. “Come on in.” I turned my head; wondering who it was.

“We’re not going out this morning?” Tim was ready for a run. He seemed refreshed; rested. I just shook my head. “Good, I could use a day off.” I smiled. He blew me a kiss and left.

I showered, dressed, and worked on my book. It was noon before Tim knocked on my door again. “Can you take a break? There’s someone here I think would enjoy meeting you.”

“Sure.” I saved my document and closed my computer. “I didn’t hear the door bell.”

Tim took my hand, “It hasn’t rung yet but it’s about to.” He eyed my scar for a second then lead me down the hall. “How is your face?”

“Its fine. Must look a fright.”

“You’re beautiful…” The door bell interrupted him.

I heard Peter laugh. As we walked into the entry, he was falling to the floor under the enthusiastic welcome of a dog; a big dog. After rolling around for a few minutes, he saw us and sat up. “Abigail, I’d like you to meet Roger.”

Roger stopped and stared at me; even his tail stopped for a breath. Then it started up again. I assumed he’d seen Tim and was headed for him but Roger stopped, sat and held out his paw to me. I bent down and shook it.

“He hardly does that with anyone.” Tim said.

“I’ve never met a dog I didn’t like. Roger knows that.” I grinned and rubbed Roger’s ear. “He’s Anatolian, isn’t he?”

Peter stood up. “Not many people would know that.”

“I grew up in Oregon sheep country. Several of our neighbors had Analotians. Instinctively protective, aren’t they?” Roger groaned as I rubbed his ears.

“I don’t know much about the breed. I picked Roger up at the pound. He’s kept my house from being broken in to several times. He’s usually pretty reserved around stranges though.”
Tim chuckled, “Roger’s a smart dog. He knows family when he sees it.”

For several minutes, I just enjoyed petting Roger but then I became aware there was someone else in the entry. When I looked up, I saw a black man. He was bald and a little taller than Peter. His bicep was the size of my thigh. His black sweater was stretched tight across his muscled torso. I shouldn’t stare.

“This is Caleb, Abigail.” Peter introduced us. Caleb stood with his hands behind his back; he just nodded. “Caleb drove the car – and Roger – here from LA.”

“It’s nice to meet you Caleb,” I stretched my hand out. “Welcome to Denver.” He barely took my hand and I felt my fingers crush. He’s got to be one of their body guards.

Black Couch - Pillow Talk

2004-07-15T11:41:00.000-07:00

I went straight to my room. As I pulled my T-shirt on, I heard the door open and smiled. “You keep coming into my bedroom like this, Tim, and people are going to start talking.”

He reached out and grabbed my hand as I headed for the window seat. “I liked dancing with you. Being that close to you made me think about things.”

“I don’t even want to hear, Tim.” I pressed my lips together. God, he’s gorgeous. And went to the window seat. “What shit was Peter talking about; that I don’t need?”

He followed and stood close enough so I could feel the heat that always seemed to radiate from him. “It’s usually pretty clear when I am finished with a woman. I guess I don’t exactly let them down easy.”

“I like that you are honest. You let me know what you want so I don't have to wonder.” I reached back and wrapped my hands around his calfs, and wonder if I could sleep if he were next to me.

He bent over and kissed the top of my head. “I lie for a living, remember. I’m not sure I am being honest with you.” When I twisted around I saw the corners of his mouth turned up. “I guess I need to figure out this all out, huh?”

His hands held my face for a few moments and then he excused himself. I sat on the window seat looking out at the black of night; confused about what had just happened.

An hour later, I was leaning against the kitchen counter reading what I’d written the night before. Peter padded in; in just his shorts. “Can’t sleep?” He pulled the refrigerator door open and started pulling food out onto the counter. “Want a sandwhich?”

I nodded and watched as he talked. “I noticed you and Tim didn’t visit very long this evening. You two arguing?” I shook my head. “Is it because of what I said earlier? I didn’t mean to interfer.”

I grinned and took a slice of cucumber. “When you and I met, I thought I’d found the perfect situation for finishing my book. Meeting you seemed to put the pieces of my dream life style into place.” Peter’s smile gave me the confidence to continue.

“I was so excited, I moved in the day after you left. Chief Steve got so mad because I moved everything out of storage without help. I just never had help with anything before.”

“You moved that desk by yourself?” Peter pushed a sandwich toward me.

“Yeah. I’m not all that stong but I am determined. The first two weeks I was here, I just wrote. Perfect way to spend my days.” As I chewed, I realized I was launching into the story of how my face got so messed up. Probably to avoid talking about my feelings for Tim. Peter just smiled at me. “The man I was dating was out of town those first couple of weeks. I picked him up at the airport and took him to his place. He noticed right away that my things were gone – he’s a real observant fellow.”

“You hadn’t told him you were moving?”

“No. I didn’t think it would come as a surprise; but I think it did. He’s a lawyer; used to negotiation his way into anything – or out of it. That’s how I got into this mess. I was – maybe still am – impressed with his command of the language.”

“Did you stay here then after he got back to town?” Peter flowed into the topic easily.

“Yeah.” I put my sandwich down. “He kept calling my cell; trying to talk me into coming back. His negoting escalated to shouting at me over the phone. So, I stopped returning his phone calls.”

“Did Steve know about all of this?” Peter pushed chips over to me. “He’s not just the Chief, you know. He could have helped you.”

It hadn’t occurred to me that Steve might be one of the body guards Tim told me about; the ones who were paid extra to stay out of sight. “Steve was consumed with setting up the kitchen and Harold, the bastard, didn't know where I'd moved. I didn’t want to bother Chief Steve. For a couple days, I talked myself into believing I’d never hear from Harold again.”

“He found you, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, I’m a creature of habit and he knows my habits. I go to the same coffee shop every week to write. He followed me home. He’s what my face ran into.”

“And, you haven’t slept since, have you?” Peter said.

“I close my eyes and see his fist coming at me. God, I’m a terrible judge of character.” The tear rolling down my cheek tickled; made me smile. I wonder how smart it is to be telling Peter all this?

Peter’s sandwich was gone and he was carving up an apple. “Maybe you should let Chief Steve know who this character is. I’m sure Steve would be happy to rough him up for you. For that matter, Tim would probably love to show off for you.”

I giggled at the thought of Tim in a real fight. “I suppose I’m making a mistake letting Tim into my room.” Peter didn’t say anything. “Someday, this will make an interesting chapter in my biography.”

“You’ll let Steve or one of us know if you see this guy again, won’t you?” He hesitated then added, “I understand you don’t want the police to get involved but it wouldn’t look good if something happened to you while we are around. Ruin our image, you know?”

My head shook before I could stop it. When our eyes met, I had to tell him. “Harold was at the club this evening. I don’t think he was stalking me or anything. I think he was just there to get laid.”

“You want to tell me what was gong through your head when you saw him?” When I didn’t answer, he asked, “did you at least tell Tim?”

“There’s really no need for him to know. He’s so…” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

“I’ll tell Steve to keep a watch out for him. Tell me what he looks like.” Peter dropped the apple core and took my hand. I didn’t answer. He squeezed my hand.

I wished I’d never met Peter; never moved into his house; never told him about Harold.

“You deserve to feel safe in your own home; in this house. Tell me what he looks like and I promise you, he will never bother you again.”

“I’ve always relied on my own resources to work these kinds of things out. If I let you take care of this, I’ll never feel safe again unless you are around. I won’t do that. I won’t give you that power.”

“Fine.” He huffed. “Steve will figure out who Harold is without your help. And, I’m sure Tim will be more than happy to hang out with you until this is all taken care of.” I didn’t much like the way this conversation was headed. Peter’s stubborn nature appealed to me but he was focused on the wrong thing.

Then something hit me. Before I could stop myself I said, “Harold’s been on the path I run every morning for a week or so. He never bothers me. He’s done with all that. I’m sure of it.”

“Don’t underestimate him. Let Steve go with you when you run.”

“Tim’s been going with me. Isn’t that enough?”

Peter drew a long, deep breath. He agreed that Tim was adequate protection – just adequate.

I know he’s going to talk to Chief Steve and Steve's going to insist on running in the mornings. Probably won't get any fresh muffins for a while.

Black Couch - Dancing

2004-07-14T10:39:00.000-07:00

He pulled me onto the dance floor; leaving Peter to find our table. “I like to dance.” Tim said. “Don’t you?”

I’m sure you’ve gathered by now that I’m not the kind of person who spends time in crowded bars – or any crowded place for that matter. Being on the dance floor with about 50 other people when there was really only room for about 20 was a blessing. It meant there was no need to actually dance. We just swayed to the rhythm of the music like the rest of the dancers.

We were served greasy burgers and fries. I gave most of mine to Peter while I watched the place come to life; getting more and more nervous as the number of people grew. When dinner was cleared away, a picture of beer and glasses were left. I asked for a glass of water.

Tim’s arm fell onto the back of my chair. “You don’t drink? How am I going to take advantage of you if you only drink water?”

“Try another approach.” I whispered. What happened to that confidence from last night? Doesn’t he know he can have what ever he wants from me?

The music was loud, the crowd was dressed to kill and there were several women giving Peter the eye. He managed to stay in his seat for about 20 minutes but then he just couldn’t sit still any more. He winked at me and said, “Don’t leave without me.”

It was fun to watch him work the room. He’d slide up to a woman; only the ones with short skirts. Peter must be a leg man. There was always a few minutes of conversation and then he’d lead her onto the dance floor. He usually left them where he found them after a song or two and then he’d move onto the next one.

“Let’s dance?” Tim didn’t exactly wait for an answer. His arm around my waist gave me little choice but to follow him to the dance floor. Dancing with him felt like sitting in the back seat of his dad’s car on lover’s lane after a high school football game. I couldn’t tell where his body began and mine ended. Music blared but all I heard was the thumping of my heart; or was that his?

I knew people were bumping into me but all I felt was Tim rubbing against me. I heard his voice leaking into my ear but didn’t know what he was saying. My eye lids closed as my head dropped onto his shoulder.

I’m sure several minutes passed before I flinched. Tim stared at me. “You closed your eyes, didn’t you?”

Creating some distance between us wasn’t easy with all those people around. I gave up and just rested my head on his shoulder; talking into his ear. “Yeah. For a minute, I felt safe with all these people around and you so close to me. Guess I was wrong.”

“I can’t protect you from what’s in your head but if me being close makes you feel safe, I’m down with that.” He pulled me closer. He swayed to the music and I followed his lead.

God he smells good.

Tim walked me to our table then left for the bathroom. I would have just sat there not thinking; watching the comotion on the dance floor if Peter hadn’t sat down. Beads of sweat trickled down the sides of his face. He grinned so wide, it was hard to see what he was saying. There was no way I could hear him.

“You and Tim look good out there on the floor. A little bump and grind is good for your soul, isn’t it?”

What am I suppose to say to that?

“Sorry, it’s really none of my business. Just be careful. He isn’t as harmless as he seems.” Peter scowled at Tim as he sat next to me.

“What did I do?” Tim asked.

“Just don’t do anything stupid. Abigail doesn’t need your shit.” Peter squeezed my forearm and left to impress more women.

I sipped on my water. Why is Peter was so protective of me? He hardly even knows me. I was leaning against Tim. His hand folded around mine and we just watched. It was too noisy to talk; a blessing for my brain. After a while, I excused myself to find the bathroom.

Before I could make my way through the crowd to our table, Peter and Tim found me. “Are you ready to go home?” They each took an arm and we sailed out of the noise and into total silence, moving

Black Couch - Limo, Anyone?

2004-07-14T10:33:00.000-07:00

Peter drives this car the way it is meant to be driven. Wonder if he’s this aggressive with everything?

As we pulled into the garage, a motorcycle came screaming up the drive. Tim pulled it along my side of the car. “The countryside around here is amazing. As he took his helmet off, I let my eyes wander up and down: feeling a bit jealous of the bike getting to spend the day under him.

He reached forward and offered me his hand. “You got your stitches out.” I took his hand and my cheeks heated up. Why would I be embarrassed? “All that heat’s liable to break your cut open again.” His index finger traced the line from my ear and then circled my lips.

As much as I wanted more than his finger to be on my lips, most of my brain was wondering what Peter was doing. I didn’t look back to see.

Tim had made arrangements for dinner and a limo to get us there. I was surprised at his thoroughness. As I came out of my room, dressed for dinner, the front door bell rang. Not seeing anyone around, I opened the door without asking, ‘who’s there.’

“Ma’am.” A tall black man in an expensive black suit smiled at me without showing any teeth. “The car is ready when ever you are. It will take us an hour or more to get to the restaurant this time of day.”

I encouraged him to come into the house but he chose to stand outside. “Boys!” I shouted down the hall toward the bedrooms. “The limo is here.”

Walking toward me; long, graceful strides, was Tim. His nutmeg-colored sweater screamed to be fondled. Or, do I just want to fondle what is in his sweater? Now, I’m making myself blush.

“What a delight,” he took my hand. “You have legs.”

As he twirled me around he growled like a dog. There was more red in my cheeks than a Georgia O’Keefe poppy. My dress flopped around my knees; whooshing as it knocked against Tim’s slacks. When I stopped, his hand rested on the bruise that covered my shoulder.

Peter joined us and we were off to what I thought was going to be a nice, quiet dinner for three. Wrong!

There was food and there were people who where paid to bring it to us but not many people were eating. Everyone was dancing. “I thought you said this would be a quiet dinner?” As we were lead to a table in the center of the room, I slid my hand into Tim’s.

Black Couch - Doctor's Follow-up

2004-07-13T09:33:00.000-07:00

The next morning when I walked into the back yard, Tim was waiting for me. We nodded at each other and took off. He ran beside me, helped make juice and watched me leave the kitchen for my room all without saying a word.

An hour later, I walked back into the kitchen to find Peter and Tim eating breakfast. Peter smiled; his mouth full.

Man, this is surreal. I’ve walked into a kitchen before to see men eating breakfast but looking at these two made me feel lucky to be alive. Chief Steve offered me a muffin but I shook my head.

“I thought I’d look for more furniture today.” I said to Peter. “Could you give me a hint about your preferences?”

“Does that mean you’ll be taking the Mercedes today?” Peter hadn’t shaved since his arrival two days ago. He looked relaxed, rested.

“That was my plan. Why? Did you think you’d get to use it?” I smirked. Standing across from me was Tim. He was wearing black jeans and a virgin-white v-neck T-shirt. “Finding furniture isn’t the only thing I need to do today.”

Peter put his fork down. “I’ll go with you. Not that I don’t trust you. The things that arrived yesterday are perfect.” He sipped his coffee, thinking, then added. “It will give us a chance to get to know each other better.”

I was about to respond when Tim interrupted. “Where did that Mercedes come from? Not to be critical but you don’t impress me as the type who drives a Mercedes.”

“I used to write for a living. The car is left over from those days; I was different then. Now I’m a writer. It doesn’t pay as well but at least I get to write about things that interest me instead of things that interest other people.” I stepped toward the garage door, walking past Tim. My nose filled with cinnamon and our eyes met.

“I guess that leaves me with the bike, doesn’t it?” He smiled.

Dragging my eyes off Tim, I watched Peter wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his flannel shirt. “I have an appointment at 4:00 so I’ll bring you back here before that.” This meant I’d be doing some extra driving but it would be worth it if I didn’t have to talk to Peter about seeing the doctor this afternoon.

“Whatever works for you.” Peter said. “We’ll just figure it out as we go.” He picked up my keys off the desk. “Can I drive? I’ve never driven a Mercedes before.”

I have a hard time believing that. It doesn’t really matter; I wouldn’t have to do the driving and that always suited me.

I looked back at Tim. He grinned and said. “I’ll make reservations for quiet dinner. Be sure you use your seat belt. It may be the only way you survive Peter’s driving.”

Peter and I got so carried away buying things for the house, I lost track of time. “Jesus, I had no idea it had gotten so late and we are on the opposite end of town from the house. I need to get you home and get over to my appointment.”

“Let me go to the doctor with you.” Peter raised his eyebrows. “That is where you’re going isn’t it? It looks like your stitches are about ready to come out. I won’t interfere. Just let me drive you.”

We were sitting on a black leather couch in a rather uppity store where all the sales people wore Rolex watches and Italian leather shoes, well, they wore nice suits too but I didn’t recognize the designer of their suits.

How Peter knew I was going to the doctor’s didn’t seem to matter any more. I sat staring out the store window thinking about all the times I’d been in hospitals and doctor’s offices and not once had anyone offered to take me, no one had ever visited me. “It may take a while.”

“It usually does.” He turned my face toward him, “this is something I’d like to do. I’d feel better if you weren’t driving yourself home.” When his hand dropped I wondered if this was what brothers do for sisters.

The doctor’s office was crowded, noisy and smelly. It took 45 minutes before my name was called and another 45 minutes before the doctor came into the examining room to see me. We had an hour and a half to talk. Peter offered rambling, detailed answers to my questions and got frustrated because I avoided most of his.

When the doctor finally came into the examining room, his first words were, “How did you do this?” He turned my face from side to side. “The chart says this happened less than five days ago and the cut is already sealed. Your stitches are ready to be removed – that usually takes 7 to 10 days.”

“It took the first two days just to get all the drugs you gave me out of my system.” I pulled my chart out of his hand. “What did you give me anyway?” As I ran my finger down the list of instructions that had been written the day I was brought in, some of the events of that day came rushing back to me.

The doctor yanked the chart away from me. “We started with the same thing we give everyone who comes in covered in blood. You reacted so instantly, we backed off and started to give you just a fraction of the normal doses. You are quite sensitive to medications, aren’t you?”

“I seldom take any so I have no tolerance.” When the doctor started pulling the stitches out, I stopped talking, stopped thinking about anything. I just let my mind drift some where else.

The cleaning fluid he used smelled bad enough to pull me back into the examining room and realized I was clinching my teeth and Peter’s hand. When I jumped off the examining table, the doctor shook Peter’s hand. “Would you be sure she comes back if there are any complications?”

“You know Abigail. She’ll do what ever she wants to do and neither one of us can change that.” Peter wrapped his arm around my shoulder and we left.

I dozed off on the ride home. Maybe getting the stitches out means I’ll finally get some sleep.

Black Couch - Truth Telling

2004-07-12T10:11:00.000-07:00

I felt my muscles relax under the heat of his hands but my mind kept nagging me to push him away. He’s never going to leave if I keep letting him do that.

He whispered, “Don’t make me leave.” As if he knew what I was thinking. “I want to hear the story of your eye; not the made up one, the real one.” His lips pressed against the back of my neck. “Tell me the ture story, please?”

“Why? You think you can hear that story and offer some advice or maybe a solution? When I tell that story, I will fall to pieces. You think you can pick up that mess and make me all better?” I turned around. Puddles collected in the corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lash out at you.”

He wrapped his arms around me. “Wouldn’t it help to talk about it? Don’t you need to vent?” He hesitated. “I know I would.”

“I think men handle these things differently than women. I don’t trust anyone right now – especially men. I won’t vent if I don’t trust.”

The silence lasted several minutes. Then, he kissed my cheek. “I suppose I wanted you to tell me what happened so I could fix it for you. That’s a guy thing too, isn’t it?” I just nodded. “My timing bites. I finally meet a beautiful, intelligent woman and she’s not interested, just now.”

“Maybe we could be friends?”

“Agreed.” He kissed my cheek. “And, maybe you can help me understand why the police aren’t looking for this douch-bag.”

“That’s easy. I wouldn’t sign the complaint.” Before he could protest, I continued. “I believe what happened is of my own design; to teach me something.”

I rested my head on my knees for a while, thinking. Tim continued to rub my back, waiting. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep until I figure out what I’m supposed to learn from a black eye and 10 stitches. When I close my eyes, I see his fist coming at me and I wonder if it will happen again.”

“You are safe here. Aren’t you?”

“I don’t think I’m safe anywhere because I can’t stop thinking about what happened. That kind of thinking is just going to make it happen again.” I sighed. “God, you’ve got nice hands.”

Tim giggled. “Peter and I both have body gaurds with us all the time. I don’t think anyone can get at you as long as you are with one of us.”

“You have body guards here?”

“They are paid extra to stay out of sight.”

I sat up and looked at him. “I don’t think you understand, Tim. The threat of physical damage isn’t all I’m looking at here. If I keep thinking about his fist hitting my face, more of that will happen. I need to create something good that is compelling enough to replace that fist coming at me every time I close my eyes.”

“And, I can’t be that because I’m a guy; an actor who lies for a living?”

“I’m intrigued that you have offered, that you are willing to listen. But this something good I’m looking for; I want it to be from inside me. I want to be able to retrieve it when ever.” I turned my head and saw him nod. “Whether you are with me or not.”

His smile created dimples in both cheeks. “I would like to help.” He reached a spot on my shoulder that was bruised and I flinched. “Sorry, sometimes I underestimate my own strength.”

“It’s just a bruise.”

The pressure from his hands turned soft, like velvet. “Peter said it was more than your face that had gotten hurt. Some times he just seems to know things about people.”

“Is he psychic or something?” When I turned to look out the window, Tim’s hands eased down my arms.

“He has insights, premonitions. It’s really eerie.” His words vibrated across his chest onto my back. “When he talked about you it was like he’d found his twin sister or something. And, now that I’ve met you; spent some time with you; I have to agree with everything he said about you.”

“You have known Peter a long time, then?”

“We met on a movie set about 10 years ago. I’ve watched him go through a lot of things but I’ve never seen him react to someone the way he did with you; like you were family.”

“So, that’s why you came here; to meet Peter’s twin sister?”

Tim folded his long arms around my knees. “He was right when he said I am a bit lonely and I was intrigued by his description of you.”

“Perhaps the two of you should carry swords and charge in on white horses.” After giggling, I leaned back on Tim. His hands slipped under my blanket and caressed my legs. Interesting way to treat a friend.

My slouch corrected into a stiff-backed, clear-eyed, alert. Why am I so drawn to this guy? Am I so weak, I’ve forgotten what men are capable of doing to me?

“Something wrong?” Tim’s lips tickled the exposed bruise on my back.

“I’m letting your charming personality distract me.” I moved to the edge of the window seat, dropping my feet to the floor. “Unless there is something you need; other than helping me get over my dislike for men,” Brother, glad he’s smiled at that one. “Maybe you could go now.”

“Well, there is one thing.” He sat next to me with his hand resting on top of mine. “One of Peter’s skills is tapping into what he calls the Universal Brain. He says that’s how he knows things.”

“I’m familiar with that concept. What does it have to do with me?”

“When ever you are around, he looses access. He’s freakin’ out; thinks he’s lost his mind. He can’t bring himself to ask you because you have enough on your mind but since the subject has come up,” he smirked.

“Does he think I’m deliberately blocking this gift of his?” Tim nodded. “That’s nuts.”

“Most people think Peter is a little off his rocker. Don’t give it another thought. Just spend all your energy healing and I’ll tell Peter he’s on his own with this supernatural stuff.”

“That must be why I like him; why I let him talk me into living here. We’re both a little nuts.” When I leaned against him, I let myself slump, wanting to rely on him or maybe use him to avoid thinking about my black eye.

Tim didn’t move. “What about me? Why do you like me?”

God, I wish I had that kind of confidence. He just assumes I like him.

“I like the feel of your voice in my head; the sensation of your hands on my back; your directness. And, I have to admit, I like that you’re strength seems to be balanced by your curiosity. You don’t seem to be afraid to step forward.”

He stood, taking me with him. “Curiosity has been my down fall in the past. Not many people think of it as a balance to strength but I’ve always considered it a necessity.”

I opened the door. “Thanks for the back rub.” As he let go of my hand and walked away, I couldn’t help but sigh.

I may regret this but for now, I’m happy I didn’t kick him out.

Black Couch - Story Telling

2004-07-09T15:06:00.000-07:00

Later that day, three trucks arrived at the house with furniture. I stayed away until after dark – to be sure I missed the delivery chaos. Walking into the house, I smelled curry and smiled. Chief Steve makes great curry.

After dinner; Tim, Peter and I sat around the dinning room table waiting for desert. Peter broke the silence, “Last night we impressed you with our stories.” He leaned across the table. “I like the tradition in Out of Africa where we give you the first sentence and you tell us the rest of story.” He grinned. “But that would violate your two sentence rule, wouldn’t it?” I frowned. “Tim told me your rule.”

“Answers are different than stories.” I folded my legs under me and waited for the first sentence.

Tim took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Bored and struggling with writer’s block, the talented writer took her lap top to a local coffee shop where they let her plug in and type as long as she wanted.” His eyebrows rose before his eyelids.

He is as clever as he is gorgous.

The story started out sounding like me but it soon turned into a total fabrication. “She had nothing else she’d rather do and no where else to do it. Her first book was on the shelves of all the national chains. She published under the name Soulie Thorn. The book was doing well. She was ready to make decisions on a house, a car, maybe even settling down.”

As I spun the tale, Tim and Peter ate hot applie pie and sipped on coffee. I wonder if they are bored; they are so quiet.

“As she sat in her rocking chair on the porch of her Denver home, she remembered that day in the coffee shop when she met her husband. Her bones frigle with age, her skin wrinkled and spotted; she still remembered the sensation of his warm hand on her neck. She was anxious to see him again and to feel the sound of his voice trickle down the back of her brain. She had accomplished all she wanted in her life.”

I smiled down at my untouched apple pie realizing the story was over. The boys applauded. I love the roughness in my throat that only comes from telling a long story.

“Thank you, both. I haven’t had a chance to tell a story in years. It’s nice to know I can still do it.”

“Is that the way you see your life?” Tim inspected the inside of his empty coffe cup. “Was any of what you said true?”

“Define true, Tim. Every story told is true for someone. Don’t you think?” I stood up and stretched. “I haven’t thought about my life much lately. Maybe this story is how I’d like it to turn out.” I picked up my plate and left.

Half an hour later, I walked out of my bathroom in my T-shirt to find Tim sitting on my bed. His legs crossed in a full lotus; his eyes closed. “You didn’t sleep last night did you?”

I sat on the window seat and pulled a blanket around me; more so he wouldn’t see me than because I was cold. “Is that important?”

“You just look tired. What are you working on that keeps you up all night.” He got up and walked over to my desk. “I heard you typing. May I read what you are working on?”

He moves so casually, so relaxed; he’s so sensous.

“I didn’t take any time yesterday to write.” I crossed my legs. “Is your bed not comfortable?”

“I’m sure it’s fine.” He rolled the mouse round on the pad. There were so many files open, I didn’t know which one he decided to look at. He read for a few minutes then smiled at me. “Your writing is just like your story telling. You do suspense quite well.”

He must have read the last thing I wrote about Howard – the scum bag that gave me the black eye. I just smiled.

He closed the lid on the computer and stepped toward me. “How is your face?”

“It started to itch this afternoon. In a couple days, you’ll not be able to tell there was ever any damage.” His hand reached around my neck and he leaned against me. “And, you’ll have to find another excuse to come into my bedroom.”

He began to gently knead the tight muscles on my neck and shoulders. “Am I buggin’ you, Abigail?”

God, he feels good. How can I even think about getting involved with another man?

“You have great hands, you’re handsome, you have a wonderful voice…”

“But?”

“You don’t have to pretend to be interested in me just because we’re sleeping in the same house. I’m not really up for that kind of attention, you know?”

He shifted around me to get at the muscles on the other side of my neck. “What makes you think I’m pretending? I am genuinely interested in you. For me, anyone who can tell a story like you do gets my attention.”

“You lie for a living; you’re an actor. Convince me this isn’t just another role for you.”

Black Couch - Morning Routine

2004-07-08T09:48:00.000-07:00

About 5:30, I changed into my running clothes and headed for the path that was behind the house. I ran nearly every morning. It isn’t a work-out-thing for me. It’s just my way of starting the day. The most important thing to me in life is my health. I learned years ago my health gets out of balance if I don’t pay attention to what my body is telling me. When I run, my body gets my full attention.

Just before I got to the path, I heard someone behind me. “What are you doing up so early in the morning?” I turned to see Tim. His bike shorts and tank top revealed more of his toned body than I was prepared to see.

“I run every morning.”

“Yeah, Steve told us.” He grinned. “I’d like to run with you if you don’t mind.”

“Yes, I do mind. I don’t care for company, thanks anyway.” Taking those first few steps onto the path, it occurred to me I’d been a bit harsh. I thought about turning back to apologize then I heard him keeping pace behind me.

It isn’t going to be easy concentrating on running with him behind me the whole way. I followed my usual route; only vaguely aware there was someone behind me.

My parents were 60’s flower children; into rock’n’roll, higher conscience, peace and love. They taught me all about meditation, blocking out negative thoughts, acting in the moment. Bless them; they had no idea who I was.

I crave routine, order, predictability. Even with Tim watching, I went through my morning ritual which included making juice after my run. I made enough for both of us and without saying anything, left to shower.

Tim stood when I left the room but didn’t say anything. Could it be that he understands he’ll get more from me if he doesn’t push?

Denver weather requires layers. Some mornings when you wake up, it is below zero and by noon, its 60 – you have to be prepared to strip down a few layers to avoid overheating. This morning wasn’t quite zero; it was more like 45 but I knew it would be over 80 by the time the sun went down so I put on a sundress with leggings and a jacket.

Walking into the kitchen, I suffered from minor heat stroke just looking at Tim. Looking at his back, I saw faded blue jeans and a light blue sweater with holes at the elbows and worn sleeves. Did I mention that my car was powder blue?

I cleared my throat and walked past him; trying not to stare. “There is a garage door opener in the desk,” I pointed to the corner of the kitchen where Steve kept his computer and cook books. “You’ll find extra house keys there too but I never bother to lock anything.” I pulled my car keys off the desk, “I’m going to arrange for some furniture to be delivered.”

As I turned to leave, Peter walked into the kitchen. “Good morn’n.” He mumbled and reached for the refrigerator door. “Where are you goin’?”

“To get some furniture. I’ll be back this afternoon.”

“Fine.” Peter stuck his head in the refrigerator. Tim watched me leave.

What have I gotten myself in to?

Black Couch - Beds are for sleeping

2004-07-08T09:42:00.000-07:00

Walking into the house after dinner, the reality of spending the last four weeks writing suddenly hit me. “Crap, there aren’t any beds. Please, take mine. I’ll make arrangements tomorrow for some to be delivered.”

I was talking to Peter but I couldn’t stop looking at his friend. God this is a gorgeous man; 6’ 2” or so, muscles poking out under his T-shirt sleeves, cinnamon red hair, emerald green eyes. “It’ll just be for one night. I can sleep on the floor.”

“It’s no problem.” Tim smiled. “I’ve slept on the floor before.” Then he winked. “At least this time, I’ll remember how I got there.”

Peter chuckled, “We’ve got sleeping bags in the car. I sort’a expected this, you know?” The rasp in his voice reminded me it was 2 in the morning. I nodded and walked down the hall to my room leaving the boys to their own devices.

I’ve lived alone nearly all of my life. Steve - the cook - wasn’t my first room mate but he was just the first one I didn’t sleep with. So I dug up an old T-shirt some man had left behind and used it as a night gown. I didn’t like wearing it but the thought of a near-stranger seeing me naked convinced me to change my habit of sleeping naked.

Walking out of my bathroom with this elegant attire, I saw Tim sitting on the end of my bed. “Jesus, you just walk in and make yourself at home, don’t you?”

“How did you get the black eye and all those stitches on your face?” He stood up and in one stride covered half the space between us. “I know you said we couldn’t talk about it during dinner but here, in your room, we can talk. Can’t we?”

With another stride he was a foot away from me. I didn’t look at him. “It’s just you and me.” His hand rested on my forearm. “Tell me what’s going on.” The heat I suddenly felt on my cheeks wasn’t just from my injuries.

“Let me tell you a little about myself, Mr. Fender.” His hand dropped to his side. “I don’t like questions that require more than two sentences to answer. Simple questions keep me from having to spend too much time around people.” He leaned toward me and I stood my ground. My head filled with the scent of cedar.

“Did someone hit you?”

I’m impressed, he actually understood me.

“My face got in the way of something.” I stepped back and walked to the door. “Now, if you would please go?” I opened the door and pointed down the hall.

“Would you let me know if there is anything I can do for you?” I just looked down the hall until he was standing right next to me. His hand was soft, warm against my neck.

Now, I’m not going to sit here and tell you I’ve never thought about him naked in my bed. I am human, after all. And, when he touched me; all of those images came flooding back into my head. This is neither the time nor the place to get involved. Fantasy, at least for me, is never meant to become reality.

“Thank you for going to dinner with us.” His eyes wandered around my face until they caught mine. “Peter is right. You are beautiful.”

I almost regretted the sensation of his hand leaving my neck but then watching him walk away from me was a feast for my eyes.

Since my face had ‘gotten in the way of something’, I hadn’t exactly been able to sleep. I felt guilty sitting at my desk writing with a perfectly good, empty bed in my room while Peter and Tim were somewhere in the house sleeping on the floor.

They don’t need to know I’m afraid to close my eyes. When I close my eyes, I see what hit me. I’d rather write.

Black Couch - Dinner

2004-07-07T10:28:00.000-07:00

The old Abigail McCann (that's me) worked all the time and made lots of money she never spent – except on a beautiful, powder blue Mercedes SL. Everytime I saw it, I had to stop and just look.

Before I could get into my car, someone’s hand was on my shoulder. “Abigail, don’t leave.” It was Peter. “Tell us what we can do to make it up to you.”

Think, Abigail. What are you going to do? I stared at my car. “Look, Mr. Smith.”

He interrupted me, “Last time I was here you called me Peter.”

“Last time, I didn’t work for you.” My eyes were drawn to a layer of dust on my dashboard and made a mental note to wipe off. “I don’t want to get in your way. I’ll just leave so you and Mr. Fender there can have the house to yourself.”

Just behind Peter was Tim Fender – the red-head’s whose name I finally remembered. “Where are you going to go? This is your home.” Peter asked. “We just came because Tim wanted to meet you.” He pulled my hand off the car door. I yanked it away from him. “Just have dinner with us, please.”

“I don’t need this.” Keeping my hands at my sides, I turned around. “Accepting your offer for a place to stay was supposed to be a way to get some peace and quiet so I could write. Going to dinner with the two of you is not going to help me write a book.”

Tim stepped forward. “How can you write on an empty stomach?”

Keeping my face down, I said, “I’m not exactly the social type. It makes me nervous to be around people. That’s why I write – don’t need any people around.”

Peter moved away from me. “I remember the day I met you. We talked in that coffee shop on those uncomfortable chairs for hours. You hardly looked at me that day but you told the best stories.” He took another step away from me.

Tim started to interrupt but Peter just stepped between us. “Shall we bring you something to eat?”

I can’t help but like this guy. He is genuine – or is he just a good actor? “What did you say to make Mr. Fender want to come here?”

“Tim’s lonely. You’re beautiful. I just thought the two of you would maybe hit it off.” Peter scuffed his heel across the floor. “Just pretend we’re your brothers or something. I should have called ahead and let you know.”

“I remember this about you. You’re very persistent. That’s how I got myself into this mess in the first place.” I leaned against my car – what am I supposed to do now? “I don’t have much experience with brothers.”

Tim grinned, “Does this mean you’ll let us buy you dinner?”

I took a second to think through my answer. “There is just one rule for while you are here.” I hesitated. “We are not going to talk about my face.” They had been polite enough not to mention my black eye and the line of stitches that dropped from my ear to the middle of my cheek. Now that I mentioned it, they both stared.

Peter’s hand reached for me but I swayed back; out of his reach. “Are you all right?”

Isn’t it just like a human to focus on the one thing you ask them not to. I lowered my face. “Where shall we go to dinner?” I hid my stitches with my hand.

Peter smiled and pulled a mobile phone out of his jacket pocket. After a short cab ride, we walked into a small Italian place. The boys sat on one side of the booth and I on the other. We were barely noticed by anyone except our waitress. She got autographs in exchange for a promise to keep our bread basket full.

For hours, they entertained me with stories about movies they’d made, back stage at talk shows, groupies in the most unexpected places.

I am glad I let them talk me into coming with them.

Black Couch - Peter Smith

2004-07-02T11:18:00.000-07:00

I had met him about a month ago in a coffee shop. It was a typical Denver spring day – not a cloud in the sky, the smell of pollution and people invades with every breath, dust blowing in from undeveloped fields. I was banging away on my lap top at the only table with an empty chair.

He politely asked if he could share my table with me. When I nodded – without interrupting my typing, he sat down. I looked over the top of my glasses and blushed. This was Peter Smith – or a very convincing imitator. Of course I’d seen him in movies and on magazine covers but what was he doing in Denver – the “Family capital of the world”?

He’d stared at me for 20 minutes while I typed. I usually focus my eyes somewhere outside the coffee shop when I type in public but with him just across the table, I looked at the computer screen instead. I stole a few quick glances at his face but kept to the article I was working on.

Finally, he interrupted asking me what I was working on and could he get me something to drink. If this really is Peter Smith, he could do wonders for my writing career. So, I agreed to an Iced Chai and we talked for hours. He was going to be working on a movie out in the foot hills so he’d come to find a place to live.

We’d met at the coffee shop several times during his visit. Each time, he’d ask to read what I was working on. Each time, I denied him stating the piece just wasn’t ready.

One afternoon, he took another approach. “I need someone to stay in my new house for a few months, until the shooting starts in September. You are the only one I’ve met here I trust. I won’t charge you any rent. No one will be there to bother you. You can just write.”

After several hours of negotiating – or was it arguing? – we reached an agreement. I was so relieved to have a place to stay that promised to be quiet. My current situation was anything but conducive to my profession.

A month later, I’m sitting on the patio at the back of Peter’s house; leaning against the brick planter, staring at the dirt yard, typing until someone walked in front of me. “Shit!” My eyes widened as I looked into Peter’s grin. It couldn’t have spread any further across his face. “Jesus, tell me you aren’t here, please.”

“I’m trying to cut back on bold-faced lies.” He blocked my view. He is a gorgeous man; tall, dark, picturesque. His dark brown eyes sparkled.

“Not to be disrespectful sir, but go away. Please?”

“I’m not going away. I own this house, remember? And, why is it you don’t have something to sit on? I hired someone to decorate this place and someone else to put in a lawn. Doesn’t anyone follow through any more?”

I gathered my computer and myself up and brushed off my back side. “Oh, they’ve been here. Pestering me about your preferences and ‘how can we move forward if we don’t know what he wants?’ But, I just told them I wasn’t involved and left the house.” I smiled. “You didn’t give them any hints and they aren’t capable of making decisions on their own. What did you expect?”

“My agreement with them was to decorate as they saw fit. I put it in their contracts; anything you do will be fine.” Taking my computer, he ushered me into the house. “Do you at least have something to sleep on?”

“I brought a few things of my own with me; a bed, a desk, like that.”

Standing opposite us was another actor, a red-head; I recognized but couldn’t find his name. “God, Peter. She’s beautiful.”

I’ve got to leave the house. “I’ll just be leaving now.” I bowed to Peter and took off down the hall. I heard a wolf whistle but was moving too fast to recognize who had done it.

Just before I reached the kitchen, I heard Peter say, “Hands off, Fender.”

OK, so there are two relatively famous, extremely good looking men in the house I call home. I have to get out of here, quick.

The Chief, who’d moved into the apartment over the garage, was standing in the middle of the kitchen. “Did you know he was coming?” I asked as I walked toward the door to the garage. I didn’t give him a chance to answer. “I’m leaving. I can’t be here while he’s here.”

Travel and Plans

2004-07-01T09:13:00.000-07:00

For years, I traveled for my job - expense account, cruel customers, very nice hotels. There were a couple years when I didn't even spend weekends at home. Now, I get to travel for pleasure. I miss the expense account - dah! - but don't miss any of the other stuff.

This year, we have been to San Francisco, Tulsa, and Denver and are planning a trip to LA in September. Not that we always travel this much but it's been a good year for frequent flyer miles.

I realized yesterday as I was coming home that I'm really looking forward to the trip to LA. First, we are going to Disneyland - one of my favorite places on the planet to rejuvenate. Second, I get to go with my husband - that always makes for a wonderful experience.

I was asked yesterday if I'd work with a person who has loads of grand plans and no ambition to execute them. Thinking about this upcoming trip I realized one of my motivators is planning things. I love to pull apart an event and itemize what needs to be done - step by step - to make it the best event I can.

It isn't that planning is the key (at least from my point of view) it is that I know planning is what brings my grand plans to life. Maybe for someone else, their ambition comes from surrounding themselves with people who have done what they want to do. Someone else might need to meditate until they see themselves in the event. Everyone seems to have a different strategy for everything - motivation, enthusiasm, success, love, what ever.

I'm a strong advocate for taking the time to understand your strategy. Think about a time in your life when you were totally motivated - nothing was going to get in your way - and put yourself in that moment. Understand what it feels like, smells like, looks like. Capture as many details as you can and then recreate that situation for your current project.

Every time I do this exercise, I get more details and it is easier to recreate the strategy. And, being who I am, I even have the important strategies written down.

So, let's get motivated today and see what happens.

Technology

2004-06-30T10:17:00.000-07:00

Douglas Adams wrote a wonderful paragraph in Last Chance To See about people who spend hours - usually into the wee hours of the night - programming their computer to do something in one key stroke that otherwise would take several. I have the same question as he (and others like the guy in Contact); why?

Having just experienced 3 days of not being able to access the Internet due to technical difficulties with my ISP, I'm wondering what it would be like to go back to snail-mail and face-to-face encounters.

As a balance to the tech-frustration of the past couple days, I'm going to have lunch with a friend. I get to go downtown (Seattle). We'll sit outside - it's a beautiful day here. And, talk.

What I really like about living in this age of technology, is the choice. I get so focused on a routine (I love the predictable) that I forget to flex my social skills and just get out there.

I suppose I should send Comcast a thank-you note for pushing me out the door. I don't think I'm ready for that yet. Maybe after they get my access to working again.

Honesty

2004-06-28T15:26:00.000-07:00

I have a tendency to think things through, analyze issues before I react. I practice what I'm going to say, the setting that I want to say it in.

And, then I forget all about the subject and let it unfold as if it were a natural reaction to the situation. As part of being sick, I thought a lot about what would life be like for my nearly-new husband if I weren't alive any more (that tells you how sick I thought I was). I thought through how to approach the subject of me dyeing, of loosing what we have together. I analyzed my feelings about thinking so much about dyeing.

And then, I just let it all go. As I felt better, the threat dissolved and I stopped thinking about how Michael would react if something were to happen to me.

I talked to Michael about my doctor's evaluation of my condition on Wednesday. After Sunday dinner, Michael brings up my condition all on his own. I expressed how scared I was of loosing my health, of not being around any longer and that I didn't mention it because I just couldn't think about it any longer.

No words come to mind to demonstrate the calm he transmitted with his silence. He convinced me he was interested, concerned and willing to support me in getting well. And, he didn't insist I accept his offer.

What a life!

Juicing

2004-06-25T10:12:00.000-07:00

I used to juice twice a day - faithfully. I haven't for a couple years and I'm not quite sure why. After yesterday's visit with the doctor, I decided it would be a good idea to start it up again. I always felt better when I was juicing.

So, I'm sitting here this morning wondering what makes me move away from things that make me feel good. And, then I remember that line about 90% of the battle is recognizing that you need to fight.

I'm going to consider myself 90% healed and adding juice to my daily habit will get me the rest of the way.

Here's a few books about juicing. Or, if you are interested, I used to teach juicing and have a class workbook that helps you understand the benefits.

A Shift in Health

2004-06-24T13:03:00.000-07:00

If you've read some of my posts, you might guess that the western medicine approach of drugs, surgery, and denial don't fit into my vision of health. I stepped away from that way of thinking the last time an MD signed my death certificate.

Instead, I go to a practitioner of kinesiology. Using the body to diagnose and recommend a treatment seems much more humane to me than relying on another person's interpretation of what they see and hear.

Yesterday my 'doctor' commented that just in the past month or so, he has seen an alarming rise in the number of patience who are unable to heal from viruses without help and the help is needed for a longer period of time than usual.

The job of a virus is to survive. In order to do this, they mutate and as they mutate we come up with different ways to keep the virus from impacting our health. I wonder if there isn't something in the universal consciencness that has weakened our defenses.

Every body is unique - thank goodness. For me there are certain things that weaken my resolve to become the person I know I'm capable of being. As a driven - sometimes obsessive - person, I am constantly looking for those things and deciding what place they have in my life.

As I recover from one of these very talented viruses, I wonder if I didn't let my guard down and allow something to creep into my mind, and soul, that put my body in this kind of jeopardy.

Listening to the feedback from yesterday's session, I've come to the conclusion that sometimes I just need to rest. I don't seem able to do that without an excuse and this time, I used viral pneumonia as a reason to sleep, not think, and not do much of anything.

Soon, I will know how to do these things without putting my body through all this struggle.

While I was recovering, I read Prey by Michael Crichton. It's an interesting look at the adapability of some organisims - like the virus.

Roses

2004-06-22T10:54:00.000-07:00

A friend of ours is getting married this summer and she is using rose petals as part of the celebration. She seemed so calm when she raised a handful of the petals and took a deep breath.

Another friend had us over for dinner this weekend and she tossed rose petals in the drive way, the stair well and on the table. After dinner, as we were talking, she rubbed rose petals on her sun-burnt skin. Her eye lids lowered and she moaned - audibly.

For me, the joy is in the vision of all those petals in the perfect position to expose the colors of the flower. There isn't anything else that will make me stop walking and just stare.

I don't know any other flower that is such an intricate part of literature, art and our peace of mind (at least for the people I know) as the rose. I looked around the Internet at a number of site and found that the commerce of roses is more active than the explanation of our reaction to them.

So I have no lesson learned or link to philosophy to offer, just a thought about the value of stopping to smell, look, feel the roses. And, for those in Seattle, here are a couple rose gardens close to us - enjoy: Everett, Lakewood, Vancouver BC.

Although it is just part of the title, The Name of the Rose with Sir Sean Connery is a great view of early religion.

Doggie Manners

2004-06-21T09:40:00.000-07:00

As I rounded the corner, I saw in front of me a large, chocolate lab. He must have weighed about 100 pounds. His teeth bared, staring straight at me. His owner was walking away from me straining on the dog's leash. I stopped.

"Come on Howard. We need to get home." The dog's owner said as he turned. "What are you doing back there?" As the owner turned, Howard took advantage of a slack in the leash and lunged toward me. I stood my ground.

"Oh, I didn't know there was someone behind us." The owner said and snapped Howard's leash.

I focused my gaze on Howard. "Is he friendly?" I asked cautiously sticking out my hand palm up.

"Oh yeah. If anything, he'll just lick you to death." Howard's owner released some of his leash and Howard and I enjoyed a good rub.

We walked together for a ways and then as I turned to go up the hill and Howard's owner steered him down the other direction, he commented. "Thanks for asking if Howard was friendly. Not many people do that."

OK, so I'm wondering why people don't approach dogs the way we do each other. I don't know many people who would walk up to a complete stranger that is about twice their size, lean them back on the bar, lift their shirt and lick their belly. Yes, there are a few who do that but they are the exception.

Why is it humans treat animals as if they have no feelings? What is it about dogs in particular that draws people so strongly we don't stop to consider the consequences if the dog doesn't want us to be close enough to pet it?

I have always thought that animals - including dogs - have lessons of their own to learn. I wouldn't consider interfering with an animal's life and the lessons they are learning any more than I would interfere with a person's. Am I the only one who extends my definition of the lessons of the soul to animals?

Full Circle?

2004-06-18T09:37:00.000-07:00

We live in a no-bar cell zone. In order to use the cell phone, I get to stand in a certain spot in the front yard, with the phone about 10 inches above my head, facing east and sometimes I stand on one foot just for good measure.

Yesterday, while in this position, I felt like I was in an old, 50's sitcom. They often made fun of the antics people went through to get the antenna on the TV in a position that would pull in the one and only station that broadcast in their neighborhood. The entire family - and sometimes visitors - were put into service.

It made me think we have gone full circle on this reaching out thing. From what I've seen - not that I was there or anything - having a TV in the house was like having a channel into someone else's living room. With the TV, you could put off looking at what was going on in your own living room. Now, we have - or is it need - cell phones to be certain no one is ever out of touch with us. We don't do well just being by ourselves do we?

When I'm out, my attention gets diverted to people who talk on their phones in public. For me, I wonder if they ever live in the present - pay attention to what is in front of them. At the store, they have to call someone to determine the exact brand and style of bread to bring home; what did they do before cell phones? At clubs, they talk to their friends describing the scene; why didn't they just bring their friends along? Walking around Greenlake (a 3-mile path around a beautiful lake in Seattle), they discuss business or their children with associates; how do they ever know what their body is telling them?

I've been told that I use my off switch more often than most - on the TV, on the cell phone, even on my computer (gasp). Those are important times for me to pay attention to things in my world. I just wonder how the generation that is growing up with TV that doesn't need an antenna and cell phones live in the present. How do they get to know themselves?

Food and Crows

2004-06-17T09:42:00.000-07:00

We live in a wonderfully populated neighborhood. Not only are there lots of humans but we also have trees, birds, squirrels, raccoons, etc. Our cat - Madame Rave to those of us who know her well - thinks she commands the back yard. The funniest thing I ever saw was her - at a whopping 12 pounds - cornering the 40 pound raccoon and she's thinking she has a shot of taking this guy. Some day we'll get it on digital and I'll post it.

Yesterday the local grade school spent the day at the park that is about a block from our house. They yelled, scampered, and ate all day long (must be the end of the school year). Around 7 in the evening - with the kids still in high gear - we noticed a gathering of sorts. There must of been about 100 crows flying around in formation, screeching in unison.

Our assumption was they had had enough of the invasion of their normal feeding station and wanted the kids to go away. An hour later, the kids had left and the crows were back to their normal, relatively quiet selves.

It just reminded me of how I get when I'm hungry and not able to get to food - I get cranky also. As a lifetime WeightWatcher, I'm always looking at life through the needs of my body. It's nice to know I'm not the only one who reacts verbally to a lack of food.

Marriage

2004-06-16T08:28:00.000-07:00

I've heard stories of women who dream and plan for their wedding day all their lives. I ran screaming from the room any time the subject came up. I never saw myself as marriage material. I was the opposite of The Marrying Man in more than just our gender.

I tried it once, when I was very young, in an attempt to please my parents - which I now realize is not possible if I'm not happy with myself. My first marriage taught me a lot about myself and reinforced my theory that I wasn't the marrying kind.

So, I set about to avoid any kind of commitment. And, I succeeded for quite a while. About 4 years ago, I decided to transition from a purely Vegan diet to one that was a bit more flexible. A mere 48 hours after I eat my first bite of fish (after 12 years of abstaining from any animal-based food), I met someone who also had no intention of ever being involved again - a match made in heaven, if you know what I mean.

Now, after 3 years of marriage, I find each day to be more interesting than the last. None of the reasons for changing my diet had anything to do with finding the perfect man. Yet, in acting on the decision to pull more flexibility into my life, the universe introduced me to my soul mate.

Now-a-days, I tend to be more alert when I make a decision to expand my universe. I am always surprised and pleased with the results.

Transportation

2004-06-15T09:31:00.000-07:00

Since we are not yet in the age where jet packs are widely used, we get to scurry around on the ground. This morning on my walk, I saw a sign: monorailrecall.com - Is Seattle being taken for a ride?

Anyone who commutes - in any city, not just Seattle - realized that ground travel isn't all that much fun when you have to do it everyday; the same route, the same time, the same old thing.

I understand that some people are disturbed by a massive project such as the Seattle monorail; others are furious at the cost of bus fares. I'd just like to suggest that maybe these triggers are covering up the real issue.

When I think about the evolution of human beings, I can't think of a time when there was as much predictability as I see around me. Yes, it's comfortable and reassuring to have a set schedule but where is the life threatening challenge? Is getting upset about the price of a bus fare just a thin disguise for the need to triumph over an unscheduled event?

I am a project manager; I schedule every detail to ensure I get the results I want, when I want it and for the price I budgeted. And, I also dash forth into the unknown from time to time just to keep my survival muscles strong and my mind from making up excuses to be unhappy.

What have you done this week to exercise your survival muscle? Here's a couple options: Rope Therapy, walking on fire, or my personal favorite - marriage.

P.S.
For those of you who are interested in hearing both sides of the story, www.elevated.org is the site for the Seattle Monorail project.

Exercise #23

2004-06-14T10:00:00.000-07:00

I spend a portion of every week-day doing exercises that focus on the craft of writing. I have several books on my shelf that encourage me to craft - and some times re-craft - sentences to make them more digestible and interesting for my readers.

One of the books I like is Gary Provost's Making Your Words Work. The exercise on page 23 asked me to "make these negative sentences more interesting by putting them in a positive form."

For those of you who know me, you know that this request pulls at the Taoist in me - nothing is good or bad, it just is. So when I came to this exercise, I took a long look at my own writing - all the way back to things I'd written in my 20's. I saw a progression that made me smile.

In my 20's I clearly believed that the obstacles and hurdles in my life had been put there by someone and therefore, could/should be removed by someone other than me. I seemed content to sit and wait until they were removed.

In my 30's I just worked. All my writing centered around the issues of communication with management, team members and customers. These were easy days philosophically. The closest thing to correct was what ever was in the contract - nothing else matters.

I started my 40's with a significant emotional experience. I spent four days in San Diego in a work shop called Date With Destiny with Anthony Robbins. I learned more about myself in those few days than I knew was there to learn. From that point on, I have written (and lived) with an eye to what can I learn.

Coming across the exercise in Making Your Words Work was an excuse to look back over the past 30 years and marvel at the changes I've made. My writing is always influenced by who I am and what I am focused on.

Writing is such a wonderful way to mark the changes that are so gradual, they wouldn't be noticed if it weren't for the record of words. If you don't journal, you might consider the possible riches in simply jotting down what you are thinking.

On books and reading

2004-06-11T09:25:00.000-07:00

Today is a delightful Seattle day - plenty of cloud cover, a slight drizzle and just a touch of chill in the air. My favorite kind of day.

These sorts of days always make me want to bake cookies or curl up with a good book. In digging around on the Internet, searching for ways to get the word out about my own book, I came across an interesting blog for those who like books: www.wfzimmerman.com. This site presents a number of book reviews with a wide variety of genres represented.

As a writer, I've always resented the concept that reading is a mandatory part of my job. It isn't until recently that I've begun to appreciate the influence of a good book on my own writing. Every time I read something written by Michael Crichton (www.critchton-official.com), I see what ever I'm working on take on a succinct clarity; boiling down the words to a thick, rich sauce (there I go with the cooking again).

I am finally coming around to agree with the mandate that every writer spend a portion of his or her day reading - it is just part of the job. So that brings me back to these kinds of days - the ones that fit so well into my job as a writer.

Today's book is Four Feathers. I hope you have time to pick up a book today.

P.S. For those techies out there, please excuse my lack-of-links. I haven't quite figured out yet how to make them acutal links. Next week's posts will be more technical - I promise.

Camels, Sand, and Romance

2004-06-10T10:23:00.000-07:00

I recently read The Last Camel Died at Noon by Elizabeth Peters. I have spent enough time in the Sahara desert to admire Ms. Peters' ability to bring all that sand and sun into a wonderful romantic mystery.

Although the writing style was a bit difficult for me to adjust to - Ms. Peters' writes with a strong, old-English flare. I was captured by her flowery descriptions and insites into the challenges of women during this period of time.

Without so much as a bare ankle, Ms. Peters weaves the passion the main characters have for each other into nearly every sceen. Her passing comments and vague descriptions of post-marital relations brought heat to my cheeks more than once.

I have spent many morning sitting on the edge of the Sarah meditating. For me, there is nothing more peaceful than the smell of the desert; nothing more centering than the sun's rays beating down on my body. Ms. Peters allowed me to reconnect with this power and added a fare amount of excitment and romantic enthusiasm to the package.

A very nice read.

Shameless promotion

2004-06-09T12:47:00.000-07:00

Across My Rubicon is the first book I published under my own name. All the others are long forgotten and rightfully so. Across My Rubicon is available at AuthorHouse.com.

The story follows Cynthia Alexander and Ted McBride through hi-tech Seattle, New York customer location, and an explosive wedding.

At some point in every person's life one's emotions and true self get pushed out of sight - hidden away from the outside world. For Cynthia Alexander this was not only her way of life but what she had to do to survive. Cynthia's seemingly heartless attitude made her perfect for managing the unmanageable, but she was not prepared for the dramatic impact this job would have on her life.
Enter Ted McBride, a cocky young programmer who would test Cynthia's patience and her capacity to mold him while maintaining her own professionalism. Everyday he pushed her closer to crossing the line and losing control. Neither of them was prepared for what was going to happen once they crossed their Rubicon.