Chapter One

Dr. Francine Packer didn’t know what she needed more:  a drink, a cigarette, a little sexual stimulation, or a money tree.  The drink and the smoke would definitely numb her brain enough to keep her from caring about the woman on the cell phone that refused to listen as Francine explained she didn’t have money to make a credit card payment.  Money would get the woman off the phone…and keep Francine’s phone from ringing off the hook with other bill collectors.  Sexual stimulation, however, would heighten every nerve in her body to the point of expelling all negative thoughts, including the ache over her lack of funds.

As she hurried into the lecture hall, one brown arm enveloping a stack of graded essays, Francine sighed.  She wanted to see Grant.  If she could plant the way he made her feel during any of their sexual interludes, her yard would be full of money trees.

“Ma’am,” Francine said into the phone, exasperated, “I know I said I’d have the money to you today, but my bonus hasn’t come in yet.”  She could feel her pressure rise.  Heat emanated from her, creating a light perspiration above her upper lip.  With her hip, she pushed the elevator button as she added,

“Yes, I know you probably hear this from a lot of customers, but I happen to be telling the truth.  Do you honestly think I would prefer to hear you than to pay you?”

Francine bumped the elevator button again and groaned.  The woman’s voice sounded like nails on a chalkboard.  She rolled her eyes and added, “I’m not trying to be difficult.  I’m just trying to work with you all.”  The elevator door opened and she added, “I’m about to be disconnected.  I’ll call back…”

“We will be looking into garnishing your wages,” the woman replied just as Francine lost signal.

“Fuck,” Francine said after she stepped into the elevator.

While she frantically tried to redial, someone pushed her hard from the back, propelling her into a wall and sending essays flying.

“What the hell is your…” she said.  She spun around and smiled.

“What are you doing…” she began, but Grant pressed her against the elevator and kissed her thoroughly as he pushed several buttons, causing the elevator to freeze in between floors.

“Grant,” Francine whispered against his soft, pink lips.  “Are you crazy?”  She laughed.

Abercrombie & Fitch.  That’s what Grant reminded her of every time she looked at him.  Except he was real.  There were slight flaws to him, flaws that made him more attractive to her.  Yes, he was gorgeous – if blue-gray eyes, short dirty blond hair, athletic body, and nice lips and gluts could be classified as gorgeous, but for Francine, it was his nose – that slightly imperfect, a bit too long, too low nose that made her smile and sigh, especially when he kissed her and their noses brushed together.

Like they did now.

“I’m crazy for you,” Grant said, sliding his long fingers down the hem of Francine’s peasant skirt and up her full, thick thighs.  When his hands grabbed her round backside, she moaned.

“I was just thinking about you,” Francine said.

Grant’s lips connected with her right collarbone.  She whimpered.

“Good thoughts I hope.”

Francine stared into Grant’s eyes.

Abercrombie & Fitch.  That’s what Grant reminded her of all right.  And she was Lane Bryant.  He was young, fit, with a long, unplanned future before him.  She was older, getting fitter, with a past that made her often lament her future.

She smiled, though on close inspection, one could see the slight crack of her pleasant façade.

“Always good thoughts,” she said.

“Are you guys okay in there?” someone from outside the elevator yelled.

“We’re good,” Grant replied.  “It’s warm in here though.”

Francine laughed when he kissed her neck, and then bit it.

“We’ll get you two out in a second.”

Grant stared at Francine.  No, he examined her.  He lifted his hands and with light touches, ran his fingers over her soft, brown face – her full cheeks, juicy-kissable lips, her chin.

Francine shivered.

“Don’t rush on our accounts,” Grant whispered while his fingers continued their journey down the slope of Francine’s neck, down to the tip of the V in her army green v-neck knit top.

Slowly, Francine breathed as she watched the concerted effort it took Grant to move so deliberately, so slowly, so exactly.  It frightened her sometimes to see him look so serious, so focused.  It meant he was thinking beyond the pleasure of their moments together.  It meant that he’d want her to think beyond the pleasure, too.

Grant touched her hair, fingering the thick, auburn ringlets that fell upon her shoulders.

“Do you know how beautiful you are?” Grant asked as if he just made some significant discovery.

“No,” Francine answered honestly.  “How about you tell me?”

Grant smiled.  “Any mirror would tell you, Fran.  Well, tell you about the outside.”

“So, my insides are beautiful, too?”

“The most beautiful.”  He touched her forehead, then leaned in and kissed her there.  “You talked about the importance of writing in your life once.”

Francine watched his eyes gloss over.  “You almost cried, talking about how writing helped you escape from the emotions that seemed to run you, especially with your family.  You told us that we all had the power to be somebody and to archive our lives with our words.”

Francine bit her bottom lip and looked down at Grant’s black Converse low tops.

“You remembered that?” she asked his shoelaces.  “That was three years ago.”

Grant cupped Francine’s chin and lifted it until her eyes were back on him.

“I remember everything about you,” he replied.

Grant slid his arms around Francine and held her tightly.  He pressed his lips against her neck then swayed them to silent music.

Francine held on to him, controlling her breathing, biting down on her lip to keep from crying.

“You okay?” Grant asked.  He kissed her cheek.

She kissed him back.  Hard on the mouth.  Her hands moved down his firm chest encased in a tight green t-shirt.  She fingered the collar of his t-shirt and pulled it back before biting into his tan skin, where neck curved into shoulder.

He groaned.  “Don’t do that,” he gritted out through clenched teeth.

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