Chapter 3 "Smile for the Camera; Put a show on for those back home"

Elle hailed a taxi, gave the cab driver her address, and chastised herself for leaving Lily like that; but what was she to do? She let her head hit the back of the worn leather seat and closed her eyes. She inhaled, held her breath, until she couldn't hold it any longer, and let the air escape her lungs.

His face was all she could see when she closed her eyes. She opened them wide and caught the cabby eyeing her strangely from the rearview. He spoke in a thick accent,

"Every 'ting alright, Miss?"

"Damn near perfect," she mumbled and rolled down the window. She stared out the window, catching in the familiar sites, letting her mind drift back to the bar occasionally, but detouring it straight back to the life she was heading back to. It was nearing 8 o'clock and Jack should be home by now. Her mind had created a split screen; Jack, smiling in his scrubs to the right, while the detective, wearing nothing but a badge that hung from a chain around his neck, smiled that sly smile of his, to the left of her husband. She shook her head as if she could erase the images like in an Etch A Sketch. Unfortunately, his image was still fresh in her mind.

"Here it 'tis," the cabby stopped his taxi at the top of her driveway, near the front steps. She glanced at the meter, handed him a crisp ten dollar bill, and told him to keep the change. He thanked her and drove off, turning his light off, and continued down the horseshoe shaped drive. She walked up the four steps to the front door, inserted her key, and pushed open the door. She was instantly hit with the succulent scents of garlic and tomatoes, and knew he had prepared his famous sauce. She slipped off her heels and left them by the front door. She tossed her keys into the antique bowl on the stand in the hallway, searched the mirror for any tell tale signs of infidelity, pulled the skin beneath her eyes, with both index fingers, and tossed a hand into her hair. She walked slowly towards the kitchen and called out his name, indicating her arrival home.

"Something smells delicious," she turned the corner, stood in the entrance of the kitchen and noticed she was alone. She walked towards the pot on the stove, lifted the cover, and stirred the sauce with a wooden spoon. She lifted it towards her lips, took a taste, and moaned in delight.

"Jack?" she called out noticing how eerily silent it was in the house, "Jack?"

She walked towards the dining room, caught her breath, at the sight of a table set for two; a vase of orchids in the center, candles burning low, and a piece of paper placed in her plate. She picked it up, letting it fall limp in her hands, as she read the note in his doctor's script.

Emergency at the hospital. Don't wait up.

Forgive me?

J.

She crumpled the paper into a ball in her hand and grit her teeth. She was angry at him; she knew it wasn't his fault that there was an emergency at the hospital. It was his job, his duty, to fix, to heal. She was angry because she needed him to be there; it was her selfish reasoning for not walking out that front door. She had left the bar, with the selfish desire that he would be her anchor; he would keep her tethered to the house, safe from her feral desire to be touched, held, by a stranger. She laughed at herself; who was she kidding? She held her hair back, while she blew out the candles, picked up the plates, and glasses, walked back to the kitchen and tidied up. She set his sauce in a container, stored the box of capellini back in the pantry, and uncorked the wine, poured herself a glass, and walked upstairs to the bedroom.

She walked to the window seat, sat against the designer pillows, brought her knees to her chest and the wine to her lips. She drank the glass in one sip, letting the earthy warmth, with fruity undertones, glide down her throat to the pit of her stomach. She reached to the wooden floor, lifted the wine bottle, refilled her glass, and stared out the window. She could see all of down town Los Angeles from this room. She watched as the lights from cars on the strip flitted like fireflies. After she polished off the second glass, she walked to the vanity and stripped out of her clothes. She let them fall to a heap on the Persian white carpet, gracefully picked up her silk blouse, with her elegant toes, raised her leg to her hand, and turned to toss the blouse into the hamper, to take to the dry cleaners. She bent to retrieve her jeans and searched the pockets as she normally did, before tossing them into the hamper too. Her fingers grasped onto something, rectangular, yet small, and as she pulled it from her back pocket, she froze.

It was James' business card. He must have slipped it into her pocket when he reached for her, drawing her close to his body. She read the neat, block, font, and turned it over in her hand. He had scribbled his home address and personal phone number on the back. She brought the card to her lips, tapped it twice, and as she weighed the possibilities, she caught the scent of him, momentarily. It was an absolute contradiction to what she was drawn to; it reminded her of menthol cigarettes and a hint of something exotic, that she couldn't pinpoint. She was tempted to pick up the phone and call him. She caught her face in the mirror and held a finger up to herself, shaking it back and forth.

"You know better," she warned herself, but the person staring back at her, smiled, almost fleetingly. The voice inside of her replied,

"Do I?"

Great, she thought to herself, now I'm arguing with myself. She poured herself another glass of wine, walked to her closet, and began to organize it. Ever since she was young, she would remember organizing things, from books, to her closets and drawers, rearranging her bedroom, to keep her mind off things that bothered her. Tonight it was the aching, gnawing feeling, of the detective. After about an hour of reorganizing, she drew a bath, let the water run tepid, and toweled herself dry. It was nearing eleven and Jack hadn't returned. The little voice in her head piped up and whined,

"He said he wasn't going to," she tried to silence it, but it kept growing stronger, "he's never home, Elizabeth, you'd think we'd be used to that by now."

"I'll never be used to it," she grumbled, rummaged through her closet for something to wear, and decided on a pair of worn jeans, ones she wore when Jack wasn't around. He didn't approve of them; they made her look messy; he liked her to be put together, elegant. Some days, no, most days, she felt as if she was living in someone else's skin. They had rips in the knees, the seams on the cuffs were untangled, but they fit her like a glove. She pulled on a baby blue tank top, pulled her waves into a messy bun, and walked down the stairs. She went into the hall closet, pulled out her messenger bag, the one she used on photo shoots, slung it over her shoulder, and grabbed her car keys. She would later like to claim that she hadn't known what she was doing; but that was the first lie. She knew damn well, that what she was doing was wrong, but as she locked up the house, she got into the driver's seat of her Passat, and drove downtown. She hadn't felt more alive.

Elle parked on the street, beneath the shadows of a tree, and walked towards the small house. She debated on calling, but in the heat of the moment, she opted for showing up on his doorstep. She had gone there because she was lonely; she had gone because she was curious.

"Curiosity killed the cat," she warned herself, rang the doorbell, and waited in the silence of the night. She could hear him shuffling towards the door, heard the slide of the peephole, scrape across the wooden door. She could have sworn she heard him gasp, but then the door opened, the hallway light glowed around him. He was wearing the same jeans from the bar, and the once buttoned down shirt, was now opened, showing off a chest that was sparse with golden hair.

"Well, I'll be," he held the door open wider and waved a hand towards the hall, ushering her in.

What was the rest of that saying, she mulled over, glancing at the bareness on his walls, the leather couch and recliner, the flat screen television, that was on, but muted. She noticed a few beer bottles on the table, the magazines he had used as a coaster. She heard the door close behind them and the twist of the lock as he turned it into place. She turned to face him, caught a lopsided smile that graced his lips, and felt her heart stop as he walked barefoot towards her, cupped her face in his hands, and pulled her mouth towards his.

"Satisfaction brought it back," the voice inside her finished her thoughts. That it did, she could feel herself smile into his mouth, which he returned, a slow grin, as he tugged on her lip.

It was an intensity she had longed forgotten; the warmth of his breath, the roll of his tongue across her teeth; she had forgotten to breathe as she pressed her body closer to his, wrapped her fingers through his hair, and felt him twinge against her inner thigh. She pulled herself away, looked into his eyes, reveled in a green she had never witnessed before, and ran her hands down his chest, gripping his shirt, tugging it off his shoulders. He wrestled with the strap to her bag, and it landed with a deafening thud. They giggled like teenagers, brought themselves back to the present, and continued removing one another's clothing. James kissed and suckled on her neck as Elle used both hands to unhook his belt. She pulled it free, with one swift tug, and started with the button on his jeans. James' hands found themselves surveying her body, starting at the small of her back, coursing over towards her breasts, fumbling with the latch on her bra. She chuckled to herself, ran her hand over his, unlatched it, and let him continue. She stepped back and lifted her arms over her head, watching as his strong hands, removed her tank top, up and over her head; she glanced in its direction as it landed on the recliner. Her bra was undone and he pulled at each strap and twirled it within his fingers, tossing it over his head, with a lighthearted yelp, that sounded a bit reminiscent of a yee-haw.

He unbuttoned her jeans, slid the zipper, slowly, and he used his hips to push her towards the bedroom. She was on her tiptoes, inching backwards, her lips suctioned to his, vying for affection. She felt the back of her legs hit the foot of the bed and their teeth gnashed into one another's', causing them both to halt. James cupped her bottom with both hands, roughly hefted her up, and scooted her back against the bed. Elle's legs were wrapped around his waist, a waist that was dipping into her pelvis, rubbing heat between the layers of denim. He burrowed his face into her ribcage, flicking his tongue across her salty skin, slowly inching his mouth over her tawny baubles. Elle felt herself arching into his body, as his mouth traveled across her flesh. He kissed her neck, feverishly, sucked on her earlobe, she let him linger above her, savoring her. She reached for the back of his head and brought her lips to his, sucking on his tongue, while hers darted across the backs of his teeth. She ran her manicured nails down his spine, digging into his skin, as she urged him meet her once more with his mouth, guiding his hand towards her zipper. She felt him finger her lace, teasing her, bringing his hand back up towards her breasts, fondling one, while he kissed her bare stomach.

She let out an ethereal moan as he slowly let his tongue trace the caverns of her body, to the dip in her stomach, to the narrow space between her breasts, and finally, plundering her mouth. His arms were on either side of her and she reached upward, into the hollow pits of each one of them, she locked her fingers into his, grasped tightly, and turned him onto his back. She straddled him, teased him, allowing him to guide her across his foreign land. Not once did he take his eyes off her, watching her with pleasure as she kissed his well toned abs, as she twirled her tongue in and around his belly button. She unzipped him, coaxed his jeans off him, taking one leg at a time, and tossing them to the floor. James' boxers were crisp, and white, reminiscent of clean laundry hung out to dry. He couldn't keep his hands off her and neither could she. She kissed him once more, this time, with such fire and passion, that she literally took his breath away. All she wanted was for him to be inside of her, delve into the caverns of her mind, her body, her soul, but what she did, was kiss him once more, and slide off him, resting her head on his bare chest, letting her fingers grace his skin, tracing patterns.

"And they said foreplay was dead," he murmured into her damp hair, breathing in her natural scent, mixed with honey and pear.

"You're not disappointed," her fingers stopped their little dance on his skin as she found the right words, "that we didn't," she sighed, kissing his chest, "you know?"

"Sure, there's a small part of me that's disappointed," he chuckled, "but you surprised me once already."

Elle toyed with the elastic of his boxers and snuck a peek, letting the band snap back against his moist skin, noticing nothing about this man was diminutive.

"Liar."

"I was being modest," he reached for her to move towards him and wrapped his arms around her bare shoulder, and kissed the top of her head. She was taken back by his gentleness. It instantly reminded her of Jack and she must have cringed, because James knitted his brows together and broke her concentration,

"This goes against all you are, doesn't it," he brushed her hair away from her eyes and lifted her chin so she was eye level with him. She closed them, swallowed, and nodded.

"I shouldn't be here," she started, but he held his finger to her lips, and silenced her, by lightly tapping her full, pouty, lips.

"But you are," he raised an eyebrow, "ain't no use fightin' that."

It was as if she had known him forever, yet in this encounter, they had met for the first time, as if it were routine. How could this stranger, this beautiful man, with his dimpled smile, callused hands, golden hair, bottle green eyes, and wry wit, mean so much to her already?

"You didn't let me finish," she swatted his chest playfully and he conceded, with a nod of his head, for her to continue.

"I shouldn't be here, with you, like this," she traced the ridges of his abdomen, traipsing her fingers up and down his bare chest, "but I want to be," she hesitated, something he found unnerving and satisfying all the same, "which you're right, it isn't me."

"It hasn't been me for a long time," she rested her head on his chest, listening to the thumping of his heart. She could have sworn she heard it skip a beat, but this wasn't a fairy tale. It was adulterated, immoral, it was a part of her she thought was buried deep in the closets of her home with her husband, top shelved memories, the tainted past that she was once an uncontrollable force.

"Let's just say," he drew on the words, his southern twang licked at each syllable, "that what this is, right here, right now, is exactly where you want to be, what you want, what you need."

Elle didn't say anything and he continued.

"Am I going to refuse you, slam a door in your beautiful face, hell darlin', I ain't stupid," he chuckled to himself, "I want you, you felt that in the bar, there's no denyin' it." Still Elle said nothing, her silence was all the acknowledgement he needed, "and you wanted me too."

"Only problem is," he sighed, "what the hell are we goin' to do 'bout that?"

Elle shifted in his arms, pulled herself up, kissed his mouth with all she had, and slid off the bed, wrapping his sheet around her. He watched as she walked out of his room and listened to her bare feet hit the wooden floor that led to his living room. He strained his ear to catch what sounded like a zipper being tugged at and closed his eyes; she was leaving him. He gnashed his teeth together, balled his hands into fists, and brought them to his face, digging into the sockets of his eyes; trying to erase her image, her scent, her warmth. Then he heard it, a faint sound, as if she was tiptoeing back towards him, and he uncoiled his fingers, looked past the foot of his bed, and spotted her, sans sheet, standing in his doorway, wearing only panties. A long, leather, strap hung from around her neck, and in her hands, was a camera. She held it in one hand, the other, draped against the jamb of the door, a wicked smile ran across her lips.

"I've wanted to do this since I met you," she tilted the camera from one hand to the other, "you in or what?"

"Hell," James guffawed, flexing a dimpled smile towards her, his bare arms, flexed as well, the notion of being photographed, naked, by her was the ultimate turn on for him.

"Anyway you can work the camera so it's you and me?" James winked and his eyes widened as Elle pulled what looked like three rods from behind her bare body, each leg locked into place, as the tripod was set. She placed the camera on its stand and hit a few buttons. She walked slowly towards him, that wicked smile, contagious as it was, lured him into her arms, and as they wrapped their lips, arms, and legs, around one another, the camera shuttered as each frame was being taken, their moans drowning out the shutter speed, that snapped their nude bodies frame by frame.