July, Present Day

New York City

Susannah Simon Inc. Warehouse

"I need the Spring sketches on my desk no later than tomorrow. If I don't get them into the seamstress by then, these clothes'll never be showcased on the runway, understand? Besides, I've heard Giselle has seen the prints and is very interested in working for us."

I stared down at my feet which I had propped up onto my desk. They were clad in a black, Mary-Jane pump designed by me! If you would take the shoe off, and examine the label, the name "Susannah Simon" would grace your eyes. They were Suze Shoes, as I like to call them.

Two years after I graduated from NYU, my taste for fashion design was finally discovered by someone pretty respected in the fashion world. Thanks to him, I started working for various designers like Jimmy Choo and Louis Vuitton until about eleven years ago. It was then that I was finally doing independent work and had my own line. At this point in my career, we were even shipping orders to Japan as well as Italy.

It just seemed so surreal to me. This was like a dream come true. I was living the Good life; the one actresses and musicians always go on about. And the best part of it was I would never have to walk into a mall ever again because I could just design an outfit, and after it was sewn together, it would just be shipped right to my apartment.

Since I was eighteen, I've been living in New York. I loved the constant rush, the buildings, the nightlife; everything about the city. Growing up, I lived in a suburb very close to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania with my parents. I was an only child until my dad—uh, never mind. I mean, my mom moved me out to Carmel, California to marry this construction worker/cook with three sons. That happened when I was sixteen. Then graduation came and for some reason, I chose to go to a college on the other side of the continental U.S. which leads me to my dream life in New York.

And ghosts? Hadn't been a problem in years.

"I've seen the progress on the sketches, and I'll work on them some more when you're gone," Naomi informed me, glancing down at the notes on her clipboard. She then bit on the end of her pen and asked, "Tell me again why you're leaving early again?"

"It's Vince," I said dryly, smoothing my black, knee length dress down. With my hair piled on my head and a pearl choker around my neck, I was the fashion symbol of chic. Then again, I was Susannah Simon. I plucked a pen out from one of the holders and jotted a note to myself down on a Post-it. "His college reunion is tonight, and he insists on dragging me to Philly with him. And if that's not bad enough, he's making me stay down there a week with him."

Naomi laughed and plopped herself down into one of the over-stuffed leather chairs in front of my desk. "Maybe he's asking you to come with him because you are his wife."

I smiled, "I've taken that into consideration, but if we follow fact through to conclusion, it is because he is a psycho."

Naomi rolled her eyes. "Right. Do you usually eye bang mentally unstable people?"

I tapped my pen on my chin and remarked, "Well, you have to admit there's just something about Charles Manson, in the way he—"

"You can't stay that week," Naomi interrupted, pushing a random strand of red hair out of her eyes. "You've got that meeting with Betsey Johnson on Thursday."

"Oh, that's right," I admitted, slamming a fist on the desk. What should I do? "Well, just tell Betsey I'm going to have to reschedule our meeting. She'll understand. She's a doll with stuff like that."

I ripped a new sheet of paper out of a random notebook and began compiling a list of things I would need to pack for this ghastly trip to Philadelphia. Were eight pairs of shoes too much or not enough?

"But I thought you didn't want to go to Philly," Naomi pondered in a state of confusion.

"I don't," I admitted, "but I've dragged him to some of my fashion shows, and he hates them. Besides, he would be furious and have his way with me angrily if I would skip . . . doesn't sound that bad actually."

Naomi cringed and then blurted, "Eww. My virgin ears, please! Unfortunately, not all of us are having great sex with excessively good looking, well respected scientist type Texans."

I laughed and leaned back in my chair. "Yeah. But I am." When I saw her roll her eyes, I added, "And great is not the word. It's more like phenomenal."

Naomi stood up and said, "Simon, I am leaving in, like, five if you don't stop."

"Okay. Fine. No more talk of Suzie sexcapades. Let's move onto things like . . . Naomi sexcapades. How are things with that Eddie guy?" I asked repositioning my feet and adding more things to my list. With a group of geniuses, was it better to go with halter tops, or vintage? Or perhaps a vintage halter top?

Naomi actually blushed (!) and said awkwardly, "Um, we haven't exactly done that yet." Aw, she really cared about this guy. "I think he might be the one."

I squealed as if I were some pathetic fifteen year old from Pennsylvania excited about a bunch of comedy CD's she ordered. "Really?"

Naomi shifted in her leather seat and added quickly, "I know it sounds hopelessly romantic of me, and—and I know it's only been a couple of dates, but he's just not like other guys which is actually why I came up here. I wanted to know how this dress looks on me. He's asked me to this comedy club tonight to go see some guy, Jim Gaffigan. Do you know him?" I shook my head, and she continued, "Anyway, since I'm not into comedy like he is, I figured I'd impress him with my fashion sense, so what do you think?"

"Stand and twirl around a couple times," I advised, and because she was as far away from my desk as she was, I pushed my black, thick framed glasses up the bridge of my nose. That's what happens when you get older. Everything sags, and everything that doesn't sag doesn't function correctly, like eyes for instance.

Naomi did as I asked, and I evaluated the dress. It had that tropical theme which was a bit much for July. It was also white and sea green only. It tied around the neck, and the majority of her black was exposed. If it were any other redhead asking me (sea green and red, BLECH!), I would have said no. But Naomi just had that something about her that made the outfit work perfectly.

"I think I'm jealous of this Eddie guy," I said laughing.

Nomi beamed and sort of jumped up and down childishly. I allowed it because she was in love. However, she abruptly stopped when someone else entered the room.

"Eddie who?"

I pulled my feet off my desk, and stood up, walking around to the front of my desk. I leaned my butt against the desk and explained to my dark, brooding Texan, "Eddie Rosenberg. He asked Naomi out to some comedy club tonight."

"Oh, good," Vince said in his deep, Texan drawl I had come to know and love, walking towards the two of us. "I thought maybe he was someone I should be concerned with." I giggled sadly, and Naomi and I both gave our greetings to him. He returned our gestures and then asked, "Who are you going to see tonight, Naomi?"

"Some guy named Dane Cook," she answered, looking down at her nails, checking for imperfections. Dragging her gaze back at Vince, she asked, "Do you know of him?"

Vince laughed and tugged at the tie strangling his neck, "Yes, ma'am, I do. He's hysterical. You'll have a good time."

Naomi crinkled her nose and looked at him in a funny way. "Ma'am? That's so . . . formal. What is that? A southern thing?"

Vince looked down bashfully and said, "I like to think of it as a manners thing, actually."

He made his way over to my coat stand and lifted my trench off its hook. "You ready to go then?" he asked me, holding the coat on an extended arm.

I plucked it from his grasp and situated myself in it. Glancing at my desk once more to check for things I'd need, I grabbed my list of things to pack, folded it, and put it in my briefcase.

"Ready," I breathed out gustily. I was such a workaholic, it was kind of nerve racking taking a vacation. There was so much to be done still. Speaking of which, "Have those spring collection sketches sent to the seamstress. Don't forget. I'm counting on you."

Naomi rolled here eyes, and sassily placed her hands on her hip, "Simon, GO. I've got this covered."

"Okay, okay," I uttered, lifting my hands in retreat. "Have fun then tonight."

Vince placed a hand on the small of my back and began forcing me towards the exit of my office. Jerk. "Uh-huh, Suze, that's great. Now we have a plane to catch—" In, like, twelve HOURS. "—remember? Naomi," he stopped long enough to shake her hand, "as always, a pleasure. Remember; speak up in the drive-thru line at Burger King." At the look on Naomi's confused face, he added, "You'll get what I mean after tonight. Have fun."

After our goodbyes, and when Vince and I were both in the elevator, I asked him, "Hey, Vince, were you really jealous of that Eddie guy for just that tiny second?"

He looked down at me and smirked, shaking his head. "Hardly," he said in an arrogant way. "I know you'll never wander. You dig me, darlin'. Why would you wander to linen when you've already got silk right here?"

"You cocky bastard," I said, not really meaning it. Please! Before me stood my soul mate in snakeskin cowboy boots, and a black cowboy hat. And, of course, a suit. He wasn't THAT sure of himself.

He gave me one of his half-smiles and said, "That's why you love me, darlin'."

+SS+

"There is NO way you are taking five suitcases, Suze!"

"But I need all that stuff," I argued, packing yet another suitcase. What can I say? Somewhere along the line I decided eight pairs of shoes were NOT enough. And besides, what if you weren't in the mood for preppy attire at one point in time and wanted to go with rocker glam instead? I was being resourceful and thinking ahead. Vince should be thanking me. 'Should' being the emphasized word.

"If you don't unpack those bags yourself," Vince growled from the bathroom, "I'll do it myself. And the outcome won't be pretty."

Before I could protest, he poked his head out from behind the frame of the door. "How many pair of shoes did you pack?" he asked, dripping water on the tile of the bathroom and the carpet of the bedroom. He had just showered.

"Twenty-two," I replied, not looking at Vince.

This was a good thing because he blew a fuse.

"TWENTY—WE ARE STAYING FOR A WEEK, SUSANNAH!" he roared, emerging from the bathroom, clad only in a blue towel wrapped around his waist haphazardly. His black hair sopping wet; his dark blue eyes aflame. Apparently, I caught him while he was shaving because his face was slathered with shaving cream. Well, he finished shaving some of it, so only half his face was covered with the stuff. I've been rendered speechless. "At the most, you should have SEVEN! NOT TWENTY-TWO!"

"I am an internationally recognized fashion icon!" I yelled in argument, which was kind of funny considering at the moment, I was clad in a pair of oversized track pants (original owner: Vince) and an NYU alumni tee. Plus, my hair was in a sloppy ponytail. "Just because we are going to bohunk Philly, PA does NOT mean I should let my guard down!"

I had to suppress the urge to giggle when Vince stepped towards me angrily. The shaving cream was just too much. Well, the towel only was too much as well, but in a different way.

"What the hell else did you pack?" he asked, glancing over me and into the suitcase I was currently filling. Whatever he saw didn't exactly make his mood any better. "What exactly do you need a bikini for?" he asked, dangling it from his index finger.

"In case—" I said, trying to grab it from him, but failing because he kept moving it out of my reach, "—there's a pool at our hotel, or in case some weird scenario—I don't know, Vince. Just give it back."

He seemed to find this amusing. More amusing than I found his attire. Amusing and unnerving. "What could possibly happen? Our plane crashes, and we land in the Caribbean? You don't need this." And with that, he chucked the suit over his shoulders. "Now, what the hell is this?"

He picked up a tube top. Hey, in my experience weather is as unpredictable as people.

"I—"

"Pennsylvania doesn't get nearly this hot. Don't need it," he interrupted me and added the tube top to the pile he started behind him. When he noticed the next article of clothing, he smirked, and raised an eyebrow.

"What do we have here?" Dangling from his hand was a lacy, pink thong. Don't get the wrong idea. I don't wear them, personally, I'd rather get up close and personal with a porcupine before I subject myself to a string up my ass, but I do design them. They're big nowadays. Somehow, this one must have gotten in with my other clothes.

Smirk still playing on his lips, he said, "I didn't know you wore this type of thing. Kind of kinky. What do they call them in the business? Sling shots?"

My face blushed crimson, and I grabbed at it, but Vince held it out of my reach again. "That is NOT mine," I assured him.

"Are you suggesting that it's mine?" he asked, examining it.

"No, I'm suggesting you're an asshole," I spat at him.

He laughed and blew a kiss my way. "One suitcase, darlin'. And bring sneakers. You'll wear your ankles out."

"Five," I argued, still holding my ground.

"One," he insisted, not relenting.

Realizing I had no shot, I decreased. "Four."

"Three."

"Two."

"Alright then," he half-smiled, reentering the bathroom. "Agreeable."

Damn! How stupid am I?

"Hey!—"

"I want you packed before I get back in there."

"Don't talk to me."

"What was that? I can't hear you over the sound of victory. The trumpets are too loud."

+SS+

Having finished packing (I just managed to stuff the essentials into the two suitcases), I had grabbed sustenance in the form of a JELL-O pudding cup (chocolate), and was now sitting on the island counter in our kitchen watching something on the National Geographic channel. It wasn't really anything I was interested in, but I was watching it anyway. Something having to do with the Amazon rainforest was on.

"There are over fifty million invertebrates living in the Amazon today," the narrator, Neil, explained, in one of those accents which you weren't sure if it was cockney or Australian or possibly some weird accent I've never heard of. The narrator continued, "One scientist even found fifty different species of ants on a single tree in Peru. The scientist is the late, world renowned biologist, Dr. Peter Simon, whose last piece—"

"—happened? Why did the shark attack you? Were you taunting it?' Yeah, I go into the sea sometimes just to screw around with the sharks. I have this thing called a Shark Rocket, and I shoot it at them. And it really annoys them. And then I just wade there in the water, and they come at me, but I'm really good at eluding them. I know of this hip move. It's something porpoises do, and then I pretend I have a bottleneck, and then I stab them in the gills. And it really—"

"Hey, turn that other thing back on. That was interesting," Vince whined, entering the kitchen. He had changed into a pair of khaki cargo shorts and a red t-shirt. His hair was mostly dry, and it looked as if he had trimmed his sideburns. But what did I care if he was looking scrumtrilescent at the moment? I was still a little moody about my suitcase epidemic.

I glared at him stonily, but didn't do as he asked. Instead, I took another spoonful of pudding into my mouth, and asked, "This wouldn't happen to be that Dane Cook guy, would it?"

Vince didn't even have to look at the TV screen. If there was one thing he knew other than biology, it was stand up comedy. Sad when you look at it. "Yeah," he finally said, heaving himself on the counter right next to me. I scooted over and took another spoonful of pudding into my mouth. So good, yet so fattening.

Dane went on about the old Kool-Aid commercials for a bit when Vince finally said, "Hey, Suze, you got some pudding on your face there."

Instinctively, I wiped my chin, and asked, "Where?"

"It's right about near your mouth," he explained, leaning in closer. "Here, let me get it for you."

Now, when you hear that, you would probably think that the person would grab a napkin and remove the offensive food from your face. This would be normal and socially acceptable.

However, Vince is neither since, of course, he promptly went about removing the pudding from my mouth by sort of kissing the outer region of my mouth and using some fancy tongue work to remove it.

"Y-You could have used a napkin, you know," I stuttered. God, just that little point of contact had me shaken up and nervous. You would think after six years of marriage I'd be over that stage in my life, but nope. I am pathetic.

"I know," he said, not intentionally trying to rattle my nerves with his stomach muscles practically popping out of his shirt, I'm sure. He grazed my cheek with the back of his hand. "But somehow things are so much more fun when you use your mouth."

Instantly, the thought of doing everyday things with your mouth, or playing sports with your mouth came popping into my head, but I figured this wasn't exactly the time to mention it.

I stared at his face for a moment, taking in his eyes which were roughly navy-blue, his large, masculine, bumpy nose, and his cleft chin which I would sometimes nibble at during some of our questionable foreplay rounds.

But you didn't need to know that.

It wasn't two seconds later when I pulled Vince's face towards me and began kissing him, showing no pride whatsoever. Not that it mattered since my renewed interest in kissing had Vince in a good mood, hence him pressing me back into the countertop. I ran my fingers through his newly washed hair and noticed the contrast of dark on ghostly pale. A minute or two passed, and Vince pulled away, staring at me with a smile playing on his lips.

"You know," he began, I noticed, supporting himself on one elbow, the other hand resting on my breast. While usually extremely sensual, this was just sort of awkward since we were just talking now, unfortunately. Imagine if everyone just rested their hand on each other's breasts when they talked to each other. Would that be acceptable? I didn't mind it so much anymore when his hand began venturing down to my hip, anchoring it in place. Again, I cannot emphasize enough how much I did not mind it. He continued, "Your dad would kill me if he knew what I was thinking now."

I laughed sophisticatedly (i.e. chortling), and ran my fingers through his hair again. He released my hip and grabbed my hand I had just run through his hair and kissed the palm of it. "Yeah, right," I said sarcastically, ignoring the pit I felt in my stomach. Why did he have to bring up my dad now? We were just about to get into sexy countertop shenanigans. Unexplored territory, people. "My dad wouldn't notice, let alone care. My dad was so involved with his thing; he didn't even notice that he had a daughter."

Vince abruptly sat up, and looked at me as if I had insulted him and not my dead father. "Don't say that, Suze," he said, looking thoroughly insulted. And I guess it was pretty harsh since the two of them were good friends before he died, but how could I love someone that was barely there for me? "Your father was a good man. He loved you more than anything in the world."

I snorted in disbelief. Were we talking about the same Dr. Peter Lawrence Simon here? Internationally respected biologist, never show up at home, Dr. Peter Simon? Had a building at Drexel University named after him, as well as a science program for upcoming nerdy biologists? Somehow, I had the feeling we were.

"Bullshit. The only thing my father loved was science, you, Paul, and Jesse. That's it," I said sharply, pointing my gaze at his. "He loved you three and his career more than he did my mom and me. Do you know how lonely it was for my mother? Do you know how lonely it was for ME? How would you feel if the day your father found out that you weren't into his hobby, excuse me, his LIFE, he disowned you entirely? It was a lonely way to grow up. For my mom and me."

Vince's eyes were aflame once again, and he looked like he ate something gross. "Actually," he stated angrily to me, "in case you've forgotten, Suze, I do know what it was like for me. Only, consider yourself lucky that your father's 'disownment' was on something as trivial as biology. Just to remind you, my father disowned my mom and I when he found out I was in existence. Try going to sleep at night when you're growing up knowing that the reason your mom is crying every other night; praying to God to give her a helping hand for all the things that she couldn't do, is partly because of you."

I subdued a gasp and looked into Vince's eyes with sympathy. It had evaded my mind that before Vince had been the cute, geeky, science nerd that would be over at my house all the time, talking with my dad, he had moved to Pennsylvania from San Antonio with his mom. Ms. Luxmoore was an awesome, but poor lady. My family would have her and Vince over many times for dinner or other times.

I guess I should explain pre-New York. It might make a little more sense.

My father, Peter Simon, had an obsession with outdoor life throughout his entire life. He was one of those kids that if he would ever find a bug in the house, instead of squishing it like a normal person, he would acquire a new pet. This is something I will probably never understand because Vince does it too, only, he never keeps them as pets. He just releases them out through the window. Anyway, somewhere along Dad's troubled life, he was able to ensnare my mother into his 'charming' death trap. The two ended up tying the knot and sometime later had me.

Since the day I could talk, my dad tried to shove animals of all types in my way. I wouldn't have a part of it. At the time, I was more interested in ballerinas, Barbie and Ken's long lasting relationship, and building metropolises out of LEGOS. No way was I going to sacrifice my terror reign on Legoville to watch birds hang out in their natural habitats. Who in their right mind WOULD want to do that stuff?

Well, a group of six year olds apparently would have sacrificed their terror reign. Just a year before I was born, the three guys met my dad, and the four of them would discuss fauna, flora, The Beatles, take nature walks, et cetera. As weird as this might seem, it wasn't anything as gross as you might think. The sixties were a different time. People thought gay was a feeling you have when you have a smile upon your face. The Beatles were drug free.

The three guys were as in love with the outdoors as my father was. It was like Dad had adopted three sons and had abandoned his wife and child. The kids were the social outcasts in school, and they joined forces to become one super nerd. Vince Luxmoore was one of the kids in the group. Like I said before, he moved from San Antonio, so growing up, he was an outcast due to his southern twang which he never lost (thankfully). He was cute enough, but I never liked him at all. Too dorky for me. I was going to marry a football player, or so I thought. I found out later in life that geeky guys were the way to go.

Hector "Jesse" de Silva was the next kid. He insisted we call him Jesse because; yeah, just imagine your name was Hector. Anyway, super nerd, just like his predecessor, Vince, Jesse had a hard time because he mostly spoke Spanish. Plus, he had the worst of luck with dogs. A scar on his eyebrow was the proof. The only other thing Jesse was interested in was medicine. I think he has a double major in biology and medicine now. I'm not sure.

The final kid in the group was Paul Slater. While he loved the outdoors as much as his compatriots, he was seemingly the most normal. I say seemingly because Paul Slater had a dark secret that would keep him from EVER being classified as normal. He was popular, captain of the tennis team, academic scholar, hot as hell. I mean, the list went on and on. And, sure, it was well known that I had a crush on the kid, but I never voiced it. If I would have, I'd have been mocked ceaselessly by both him and his friends. We were six years apart after all. Anyway, despite Paul's seemingly perfectly normal physique, he was given the gift that I, as well, had been cursed with. Paul was a shifter. We both figured out each other's powers when I came across one of my first ghosts. I'm aware of all my shifter powers and senses thanks to him. He took the time to tutor me in the ways of the paranormal. We've never leaked the secret that we are what we are to anyone.

Basically, I grew up with these three boys. They were like an extension on our quaint, little family. Sometimes I liked the boys around. More than likely, I did not like them around especially when I found Legoville had been destroyed by giant human feet.

We didn't stay kids forever (thank God). In 1982, I turned thirteen, and the boys were entering their sophomore year at Drexel University, the school my dad worked at since about his mid thirties. He was home even less of the time due to all the studying abroad he did with his classes, and, of course, Vince, Jesse, and Paul.

The government had been following my father's success in that creepy, stalkerish way they do. Apparently, they got wind of some sort of plant that could be the answer to ending the AIDS crisis, which resided in the Amazon rainforest. They needed a well-trained scientist who knew the land, animals, and would recognize the plant immediately. So who better to recruit than the world renowned scientist, Peter Simon?

The last time I ever heard from my dad again was in June of 1983. He was calling from Porto Velho, Brazil to let us know that he had arrived safely.

Two days after, the government lost track of where he was. They sent troops to scout the designated area out, but no sign of my dad. Things went on in this vain for a couple weeks. After a couple months, he was declared missing. And after a year, he was reported dead.

The president, hearing of the news, made sure the entire event was covered up. No story appeared on the news, no articles were written. All of Peter Simon's files were erased, making the world believe he never existed. The president gave my mom a lousy phone call and told her he was sorry for her loss. I guess he totally forgot that there was a little girl who was fatherless now because of his selfish idea to find some dumb plant.

My mom cried for what seemed like eight years, maybe it was that long, I wouldn't know. I became anti-government, and anti-science. I became empty and angry that God, who was so righteous, would take away my father AND give me the gift of shifting. Jesse, Paul, and Vince took it the hardest, I think, well, other than my mom. The three went off on their own separate ways after the private funeral the president had for family and friends only. They would come around occasionally to see how my mom and I were doing because they knew my dad would have liked it that way, but they didn't talk much to each other anymore. I remember I didn't cry a single tear because I was so angry at God and at America.

Two years later, my mom met this guy Andy Ackerman, whom she was fully in love with, and dragged me across the continent to Carmel, California.

So that's basically what happened. Four brilliant minds; one dead, the other three cut off communications from each other. I moved to New York, and that brings us to here.

Sometimes when I'm down and out, my mind will drift back to my father. I wonder if he really was dead, why I hadn't seen him come back as a ghost. Then I chastise myself saying that it's been twenty-two years since you last heard from him, and that the reason he hasn't come back as a ghost is because he left nothing behind.

Like I've said, I don't really like to talk about it.

"Vince," I said, looking down at my legs, feeling like the lowest piece of dirt in the entire world, "I'm sorry."

He breathed out heavily, and said to me, grasping my chin between his thumb and index finger forcing me to look at him, "I know, darlin'. You just weren't thinkin'."

"No," I debated, brushing some hair out of his eyes, cupping his face in my hand, "I was definitely thinking. But I was being selfish, impertinent, immature, insensitive—"

"—an ass—"

"—an ass—Hey!" I protested. "I think we get the picture. No need for your inclusion."

I got off the countertop and draped my arms around his neck, urging his hands to take a hold of my hips, which they did. He lowered his lips to mine and kissed me tenderly before pulling away and just staring. I guess you could say we were having a moment.

"I love you, Vincent Luxmoore," I said, moving my hands from the back of his neck to his chest. It was every bit as dreamy as it looked. Possibly more so now that I was grazing my hands along the contours and ridges, but it was like a fun bounce for women, minus the bounce.

Vince rolled his eyes and grasped both of my hands into his, backing me up against the wall under the TV. Better hope that thing is screwed in tightly. "Now I know you're just sucking up, Susannah Luxmoore."

"Susannah Simon," I corrected him. I had never taken his name because I married him after I had business in full swing. You can't go from Suze Simon to Suze Luxmoore when everyone knows you as Suze Simon. It was just too complicated.

I felt his lower body press into mine as he restrained my arms by holding them above my head and pressing them against the wall. "Same difference," he slurred, his face inches from mine, and his Texan drawl even more evident than usual. Smirking, he planted a kiss on my collarbone and added, "If you're trying to seduce me into having sex with you . . . I gotta say: whatever the hell you're doin' is working."

Pressed up against the wall, I giggled, and said, "If I had wanted to have sex with you, we would have done it on the countertop. I'm trying to go for new places."

"So where will it be this evening then, ma'am?" he asked, moving his illicit kisses from my collarbone to my pulse point. "The bed is obviously not a choice, the dining room table, well, you know what went down there, or rather who."

"Shut up," I squirmed, biting at his ear which was really the only thing I could reach for at the moment seeing as how my hands were out of use. I wasn't trying to be kinky, I swear.

Vince growled, and then covered my mouth with his once again, so I wouldn't try that stint again. In between kisses, he breathed out, "We did it four times on the couch, once on the kitchen floor, two times on the stairs, oh, and—"

"Vince!" I shouted, trying to release my arms, succeeding, and then slapping him on the back. "Shut it. There will be no sex. I need a shower, and we have a plane to catch in . . . three hours now. Now get off me."

He released me, and followed me into the bathroom saying, "The shower it is then."

+SS+

Needless to say, my shower was longer than expected.

And right on the money: this reunion was as thrilling as watching Ben Affleck act.

Vince had assured me that I would be fine, that if I just blend in with the crowd, I should have a swell time. How you blend in with men who have never been interested with reality TV or Friends is beyond me. I mean, I know there were females here as well, but they all seemed to look down on me because I was either better looking than them, or I was wearing maroon. I couldn't decide which choice ruled out.

I stood there, leaning against the refreshments table, and stared gloomily at the "WELCOME BACK, CLASS OF '86! UP TO YOUR SAME OLD TRICKS AGAIN!" which hung right above the double doors entering the country club. I took another gulp of the wine I had in my hand. I figured it would be a lot easier to deal with people smarter than me if I were unconscious.

I grabbed a fork off the table and was just about to take a plate too, when I had an idea. Leaning my head back, I placed the fork on the tip of my nose, trying to see if I could balance it without having to use my hands. My only defense for myself is the wine. Or possibly my sheer boredom.

"That's clever. You're using your two greatest attributes. Your skill and your beauty."

Immediately, I grabbed the fork off my nose and spun around. "Why don't you go f—Paul?"

"Suze."

I shook my head and did a double take. How could he be so nonchalant about the situation? Before me stood Paul Slater. Only, he wasn't six years old anymore. He was a full grown man with a goatee and a tuxedo.

(A/N: Goatee disclaimed to great authors of Flashlight)

"God, how're you doing, Slater? Is Jesse around here too?" I asked him, bringing him into a polite hug, as if I were in a trance. Since when had he become FINE? And why in God's name was I hugging him?

"I've been good, Suze. Jesse couldn't make it. He's doing some medical related thing down at the hospital," he said, bringing me closer to him than was actually polite. I pulled away almost instantaneously and pulled a stray piece of hair that had become attached to my lip-gloss. Paul tugged at his bow tie a bit and then asked with a smile, "So how are things with Suze Simon, or I guess I should say, Suze Luxmoore."

I scratched at my neck, and as much as I don't like to admit it, I assured Paul he was right. "Uh, no. Actually I'm still Susannah Simon. The, uh, empire and everything I have couldn't change my name. It'd be too weird."

Paul raised an eyebrow, and grabbed a roll from one of the baskets. A smirk was playing at his lips, and, figuratively speaking, he looked as if he were a cheetah waiting to pounce on a lone mouse or something. "Ah, so you're still my little Suzie Simon?"

I snorted, and took another gulp of my wine. I'm sure you're not supposed to take gulps of alcohol, but I wasn't following rules this evening. I figured Paul Slater worked in the same way as the reunion did. If I was intoxicated, he'd be easier to deal with. Maybe I needed some whiskey too.

"Hardly, Paul," I said, rolling my eyes, and taking a glance around the room. Vince had made his speech earlier in the evening, so he had to come back sometime. Probably off canoodling with all the ladies that wish they would have given him the time of day, but didn't. Life was a beautiful thing sometimes. Despite the gift of mediation I had been given, I had been blessed with 6'5" of unadulterated (well . . . to an extent), masculine hotness with an accent. I don't really think things can get better than that.

"You never had a chance," I assured him, deciding to "work the room". I would treat this like any of the other parties I've been to. Except, instead of other models, designers, etc., this room was filled with Trekkies, virgins, and mutants. This wouldn't be difficult at all.

"Don't be so sure," Paul said, taking two gargantuan strides so he was next to me again. He made it so our arms were linked as he unofficially invited himself on my jaunt to the other side of the room. "There was a time when I did have a chance."

The buzz of people chatting, people laughing, glasses clinking, and feet shuffling penetrated my ears making speech a little less audible, but I had heard Paul Slater's words flawlessly. "Incidentally, Slater, the time you had a chance coincides perfectly with the time I was not my smartest."

Paul laughed and looked down on me. Why was it my entire life everyone has been looking down on me? Even the post guy looks down on me. This could be because of everyone's significant height difference, but come on. I think we have something that's not being looked over. Some issues that are not being brought into the light. "Suzie-Q, is that the way you're going to treat the guy who taught you everything you know? The guy who gave you one of the best years of your life?"

"It was fourteen months," I corrected him, begrudgingly. "And you didn't teach me everything. I have New York University to thank for that, my high school, and my parents, Paul."

"I was speaking more along the lines of paranormal activity," Paul said quietly. So quietly, in fact, that I had to lean in to hear him. Thinking back on it, this was probably his plan all along. "But now that you mention it, what went wrong with our relationship?" he asked, fiddling with his bow tie again. "Mighta been better if we slept together, I guess."

I glared at him, recognizing the stupid song he was referring to. Personally, I didn't find it funny. Personally, I wanted him to release my arm, so I could leave and go dance with my husband. Personally, I was a little hurt. "We did sleep together, you jackass," I hissed. Then, just to make sure he didn't get any ideas that I had liked it or anything which was beside the point, I assured him, "Something that will never happen again."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," he suggested, smiling. At this point, I totally yanked away from him. Please. As if I would sleep with him again. I have morals. I'm married. And I'm happy.

Although, he did do that thing where he would lick—

"You'll come back for more," Paul assured me, taking his full stance position again. "You know what they say, once you've gone Slater, yuh—"

"Suze! There you are, I've been looking for you all evening," Vince interrupted, walking over to me and my pathetic posse (i.e. Paul). Thank God he came when he did because if Paul would have finished that statement, I would have just died right there. No hesitations.

Vince slipped his arms around my waist from behind, and said to me, whilst swaying us from side to side, "You look gorgeous, darlin'. What have you been up to?"

"Hmm," I smiled, turning around, and giving him a quick kiss, "you don't look too bad yourself, partner—" Which he DIDN'T. He had his hair slicked back, and I believe a tux just does something to a guy like Vince. It does something like make you suddenly want to lick him or something which is just beyond kinky and pretty much lands in the disturbing category. But he was just so ruggedly good looking. With a gesture of my hand in the direction of Paul, I admitted, "I've just been talking to old friends."

And when Vince saw who I was talking about, he let go of me, and a wide, giddy smile was created on his face.

"Lucky," Paul said, returning the gesture of huge, embarrassing smiles, and calling Vince by his old childhood nickname, "you clean up pretty well. How've you been?"

"How've I been?" Vince asked, pulling Paul into one of those masculine guy hugs. "How've you been? I haven't talked to you since, er, you know. What have you done with yourself?"

And it was then that a huge conversation involving old memories, old friends, and new jobs commenced. I was included occasionally, but mostly, I just stayed out of their way, and mentally mocked the people in the surrounding room. It's a lot more fun to do when you're with another person, but I deal with what I have. Plus, it's a huge boost for your self-esteem. It really is effective.

"Do you remember on one of our last trips with Pete," Paul was asking, a few drinks and about an hour later. Vince was already in stitches because apparently he did recall this one. I listened intently since I had never heard this one. I had never heard a lot about my dad, "he held up his glass and—"

But it looked like once again, I wouldn't be hearing this tale. It was at that moment that the double doors entering the country club burst open. Standing at the door was obviously a foreigner because all he was wearing was a loin cloth and one of those safari hats. His mocha colored skin looked paler than usual since his dark tattoos looked ink black when in reality; they were probably navy-blue.

All the chattering died, and every head in the room turned toward the strange new face. For only a mere second, the silence was louder than the chattering had been beforehand, piercing each of our ears. Slowly, the chatter started up again, but it was basically just whispers. Who the hell was this guy interrupting this boring reunion?

After what seemed like hours, the man finally spoke, but only in choked phrases. "I—I . . . am looking for a Susannah Simon. It is of the very important that I speak to her. Is she here?"

As he began to enter the room in strides which made it seem like he was exhausted, every single head in the entire room seemed to turn towards me. Vince was the worst looking at me very strangely as if to say, "What the hell?" Give or take a few words. Being the sexist that he is, he grabbed my hand, and pushed through the sea of people that had formed around our new guest. "This is Susannah Simon," he said, "Who the hell are you?"

Gasping for air, our new friend swallowed, and shook his head, "Not important. I have—" he began, taking a step forward, but then collapsing. Vince and I rushed forward, not knowing what the hell we were doing. Everyone else behind me seemed to be in a blur. The only thing that mattered was that we knew what this messenger wanted.

Vince propped the guy up, and seemed to notice at the same time I did that there were two perfectly circular puncture wounds on the right side of his stomach. A mixture of crusted and congealed blood was surrounding what looked like a bite. There was a dry river of it that slid down the center of his stomach.

Without thanking Vince, the guy kept his intense, black eyes locked on me. With sharp, jagged breath intakes, he said in disturbed English, ". . . Letter . . . from Peter . . . Simon . . ."

Finding my voice for the first time in the last couple of minutes, I swallowed, shaking my head rapidly. "No. You must be mistaken. My father died twenty-two years ago." Realizing what must be going on, I added, "If this is some sort of joke, this is really not funny."

However, seized in his limp hand was a dirty scrap of paper. He handed it to me, and then almost immediately afterwards, passed out.

Holding the paper in my hand, everything else seemed to not exist. I could barely hear Vince shouting for someone to call an ambulance even when he added when no one was listening because they were as shocked as I was, "NOW!" The frantic people passed around me in a blur, and it seemed as if my heart was pounding in my skull. Finally, not being able to take it, I opened the paper and read in my father's sloppy, precise handwriting, my head spinning:

Peter Simon

July 18, 1984

Help me

The light is the source of destruction