"Regrets"

They spent longer in Gregland than either of them had planned. It wasn't until he heard the frantic knocking on the downstairs door that he realized a significant amount of time had passed. Checking his watch, he discovered almost an hour had scurried away. How did that happen? It was almost 9:00.

Guess Daddy finally decided to drop by.

Might a Father of the Year award be forthcoming for Mr. Charlie H.? Sure. Look how much he cares about Sam over there. The kid's fast asleep in a stranger's bed, while Dad was out tilting a few with the boys...or girls...or both. How's that for keeping tabs on your progeny?

Sam had spread himself across the bed, those long legs dangling off the side, as he promptly fell asleep. Clasping The Origin of the Species close to his chest, he looked like a little boy clinging to a prized possession. By his head was the dreaded Dynamite CD.

Goodness, Greg, what have you done? Corrupting the boy so early...

Downstairs the knockin' continued. It had slowed a bit, like someone's hand had tired. But after a moment it picked up momentum, rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-a-tat, sounding like machine gun fire.

The phone was too warm against his ear. The plastic felt clammy and slick, yet he wanted to keep it in place, let the conversation ride. Give it a few more minutes. But no. The impatient, worried, absentee Dad was downstairs, preparing what would surely be a sob story of some magnitude.

Let the guy stew awhile; let him pace and wonder what was taking so long.

That could only lead to trouble later. Get rid of this guy...fast.

Ol' Charlie was pummeling the door now. Give it another minute and he might just bash his way through.

Awww, then there would be blood and glass everywhere.

Such an unsightly mess. What made Charlie think the world revolved around him? It ticked Greg off to think this lame excuse for a human was somehow...impossibly...Lisa's husband and Sam's father.

Some guys step in shit...

After informing Wilson that the demon was at the door, Greg pushed the 'end' key on his Nokia and, with some effort, moved out of his chair. Wilson's stories about school, the professors, the satisfaction of understanding concepts, of 'getting' things right, had irked Greg. He allowed himself to sit for a moment, staring out the window, the road not taken calling out to him.

How fuckin' maudlin. Get with the program. You are the washed out failure you were always meant to be.

Where would he be now if he turned right instead of left?

Only fools let regrets control their lives. For him, change wasn't in the cards. Damn that Wilson for pushing optimism on him, like a seller of cheap suits. In the space of a phone call he had put a chink in Greg's armor, a dent in that deep rooted cynicism.

Life, Greg assured himself, was just peachy. He was too old to think of shifting gears, regardless of the drivel Wilson had spent an hour spewing into his ear. Life been mapped out for him. The great wand of destiny had passed over his head that day he met Crandall in that club in Ohio.

And that's the name of that tune...

"C'mon, kiddo, wakee, wakee." One gentle flick on the earlobe brought the Sam back to the land of the living. "You hear that thunder down under?"

"...yuh..."

"Daddy's here."

"He's mad." Sam rubbed his eyes and sat up. "He only bangs things when he's angry."

"Good," Greg said. "We'll have something in common."

Sam got off the bed and slipped on his jacket, running his hands over the leather's shine before zipping up.

"Put Darwin in your back pocket," Greg handed him the book. "Survival of the fittest is a concept you should always keep handy."

"Okay" Sam tucked the book away and hitched his pack over his shoulder.

"Listen, he might not let you keep the other stuff I bought you." Greg grabbed the helmet off the bed and tossed it to Sam. "You'll be angry and want to lash out at him. Don't."

"But they were gifts." Sam seemed more surprised than upset. His brow furrowed as he put on the helmet and buckled it securely under his chin. "Why would he do that?"

"It's a matter of pride." Greg led the kid out of the bedroom and gestured for him to head downstairs. "He's your father. You do as he says."

Sam took the stairs slowly, with a reluctance clear as the moonlit night.

I'll keep it safe for you."

"Huh?"

"If he doesn't let you keep the bike stuff," Greg said. "I'll keep it safe."

Charlie was leaning against the window, palms pressing the glass, squinting as he struggled to see into the store; his mouth fell open when Sam waved. Lifting his hands, Charlie took a step back and threw the kid a 'what the hell' look.

Ambling past Sam, Greg jangled his keys. "I got this." As he unlocked the door, he caught the impatient tap of Charlie's left foot.

"Sorry I'm late." Charles breezed past him and Greg caught the unmistakable smell of booze bursting through a haze of Tic-tacs.

"You okay?" Charlie asked Sam.

Nodding, the kid touched the strap of his helmet, then let his hand drop to his side.

Brow creasing in...annoyance, curiosity, or a mix of the two, Charlie hunkered down, those well manicured fingers sampling the kid's leather cuffs. He frowned at the studs.

"Where did you get this?"

"I-"

"We had to ride here on my trusty steed," Greg cut in. "You don't ride a bike around here without a helmet."

"A helmet I can see...but this?" Charles tugged at the kid's sleeve. "He looks like a street punk."

"I like it," Sam said softly, his eyes finding Greg's before looking away. "It was a gift."

"You have no need for it anymore." Charles rose to his feet and turned to Greg. "It was thoughtful of you. Above and beyond, as they say." He extended his hand; in response, Greg folded his arms across his chest.

Sighing, Charlie dropped his arm, letting it swing at his side. "You didn't have to do this, Greg. Do you still have the receipts? If you don't, I'll give you the money." He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a brown leather wallet. A gold leaf calligraphic 'CH' was pressed into its side. "How much was everything?"

"I don't want your money," Greg said.

"I insist."

"Like the kid said, they were gifts."

"Fine." Slapping his wallet shut, Charles gave a small shrug. "Then he'll give it all back. Sam, take that stuff off." He stared hard at Greg as Sam began removing the gear. "This wasn't necessary."

"What was I supposed to do?"

Charlie's brow lifted in surprise. "You could have-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. I should have kept the kid holed up with me in that supply room at the hospital until you saw fit to come get him," Greg said. "It would have been the funnest time ever."

"I'm sorry," Charles muttered, looking more weary than regretful. " It took longer than I thought to find a suitable replacement for the shoot."

"Guess you had to do it over drinks, maybe a steak too, judging by the gravy stain on your shirt." Greg said, waggling a finger at the offending spot.

"To be successful you have to play the game, Greg." Charlie raised his chin and tossed out a condescending chuckle. "But perhaps you wouldn't know of such things."

"Games are easy, Charlie," Greg bumped the tip of his cane against the edge of his sneaker. "It's the rules that are tough. You know the rules, Charlie? I do because most of the time I make my own. Life's a whole lot easier that way..."

Some fiendish beastie took this moment to dig its claws into Charles, dimming the light in his eyes, causing his shoulders to sag. It might have been summoned by the calm, assurance in Greg's tone. Or maybe it was the way Sam was holding out the motorcycle jacket and helmet in two hands, like they were offerings to a god.

Charles rubbed his forehead. "It's late. Thank the man and let's go."

After setting his cane against the wall, Greg accepted Sam's offering and thanks, while throwing him a solemn wink. Sam returned it like a salute, shoved his hands in his pocket and followed his father out the door.

Father and son stepped lively over the gravel and dirt toward Charlie's Mercedes. Charlie slipped into the driver's seat, while Sam opened the passenger door. Before getting in, he patted his right rear jeans pocket, making sure The Origin of the Species was still safely tucked away.

L.A. had been a hot, sticky cauldron of traffic jams, late lunches, too many meetings, and a couple of interesting surprises. She had made it out of there, breathless, but with all her faculties, which was saying something. Now, in her first class window seat, wine spritzer in hand, she hoped to relax and enjoy this flight back east. Once she got home, there would be much to do, a whole lot of decisions to make.

Who knew there would be more to think about heading home than on the plane out? Starting now, the decisions she made wouldn't only affect her. They would affect Sam and Charles...and Greg, as well.

Sipping her drink, Lisa stared out at the clouds, wondering about her own selfishness. She had never been fair to Greg. Why was that? Why was guilt riding her so hard these days?

What they had together was so good, keeping it clandestine was part of the fun. The taboo was delectable. It didn't matter that they had to keep it under lock and key. True, they couldn't take a bike ride in the afternoon, or lunch at the same table in the hospital cafeteria. That was okay.

Really?

Sure. As long as they had those nights.

But some external force took exception to perfection, pushing its way in to spoil what was good and right and...fun. Crazy. How can fate twist and turn your life around, tossing you the good times on a whim, peppering them with regrets so strong they made your body ache?

What if she had opted for a completely different path?

Lisa wondered where she would be.

She needed time to think...

Setting her spritzer on the tray table, she leaned her head against the seatback and let the events of the last three days unravel in her head...

After arriving in Los Angeles, Lisa's first hour was spent collecting her luggage and enduring the bumpy airport shuttle ride to the hotel. Staring out the window at the unfamiliar street signs and the too bright sun, she allowed her mind to drift back east. Her first thoughts were of Sam, which primed her make a mental note to call him later when he got out of school. Don't forget. No matter how hectic the day became, she wouldn't allow herself to forget.

His father does that, promises to call and never does. Or he calls hours after the arranged time and Sam is either asleep or too tired for conversation.

Sometimes Lisa got the impression Charlie planned things that way.

She closed her eyes, wrapped her arms across her chest and allowed herself to think of Greg. A corner of her mouth curved into a smile. Lately she hadn't been as focused on their 'meetings' as she usually was. Her mind had been on this trip, on Sam, on how displeased she was with the frequency of Charles's absences.

Greg felt slighted, she knew. He was like a kid that way, wanting to be the center of her world. Maybe she needed to start putting a bit of distance between them.

Then she thought of their soirees, the particularly heated ones...

On the other hand, she mused, her cheeks growing warm, maybe not.

Opening her eyes, she watched the traffic flow, tossed a sleepy glance at the palm trees.

She would have to make it up to him.

The administration seminar at UCLA had its moments. The lectures and literature were marginally interesting. The whole thing might have turned out to be a complete 'snoozefest' if fate hadn't dropped by to swing the proceedings and take them in a completely different direction.

Dr. Elliott Messer, the current head of Brandof Teaching Hospital in Burbank, tracked her down the afternoon of her first full day there, going so far as to seat himself next to her at the welcome luncheon.

After introducing himself, he explained who he was and then produced her résumé from the pocket of his tan dress shirt.

She read it over, making sure he hadn't confused her with someone else. After careful perusal, she saw that, indeed, the resume was hers, one of the five she had sent to various SoCal teaching hospitals weeks ago.

That was when Elliott Messer offered her his job.

Amazed and flattered, she could only stare at him, dumbfounded, glad she had not yet put food in her face. It would surely have fallen from her open mouth onto the table, and how embarrassing would that have been?

Messer explained how he had been on the hunt for a likely candidate for a few months. When he came upon her resume, her impressive qualifications made him reluctant to continue his search. He knew after his first quick perusal of her CV, that this was the perfect person for the position.

Still, he hadn't contacted her, since his goal was to try to find a qualified someone who lived in the state. But Lisa's résumé always seemed to be within reach, sitting on his desk, forever in his peripheral vision. While interviewing a prospective candidate, his concentration flagged. He knew the right person for the job. She was three thousand miles away.

Now she was here.

The remainder of that welcome lunch went by in a strange, stifling blur. Lisa couldn't seem to pull her gaze from the sparkling silverware and found it difficult to form a coherent response to Messer's flatteries and questions. She barely touched her Chicken Marsala, and passed on dessert.

Seeming to sense how overwhelmed she was, Dr. Messer suggested they have dinner later to discuss salary (which turned out to be double what she was making in Princeton), the job description, and when she might be able to start.

That evening at Rosario's in Beverly Hills, she drank too much. The wine and the fettuccini, the promise of more money, the chance to live out her dream to the fullest made her starry eyed and giddy. She looked in Elliot Messer's eyes and thought about a private school for Sam, where her son could focus on his music and hone his talents; she looked into his eyes and thought about Charles. How happy this turn of events would make him. Now he would be home more, no more hopping the red-eye for those cross-country jaunts, no more excuses why he couldn't attend Sam's recitals.

Mistress, who are you kidding?

Her back stiffened as that voice jolted her from her reverie. Greg. Oh, God. It was all in her mind, of course, but Greg did have that habit of barging into her thoughts at the most inopportune moments. The ache in her chest forced her to lay her fork down, her appetite fleeing like a jackal in the woods.

"You okay?" Elliott asked, setting down his water glass.

"Fine." She flashed him a grin, the best one she could muster, given the way Greg was staring at her. She wished he would get out of her head. Then...she hoped he wouldn't.

And later, when Dr. Elliott Messer's hands roamed across her nakedness, his touch so different and new, like a strange, dark carnival ride, she thought of Greg and what he might say about this one night stand.

Then she closed her eyes, imagining this was Greg's mouth on hers, it was his cock thrusting slow and deep inside her.

Which, for the moment, made everything just fine.