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Subject: {ASSM} "Dream Maker" {Dancer} (MF rom slow) [1/5]
Date: Tue,  1 Apr 2003 13:10:05 -0500
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Warning: "This [work of prose] contains scenes of
	nudity, sexuality and coarse language.
	[Reader] discretion is advised."
{I.E. If it's illegal/dangerous to read/possess
pornography where you are, don't bother.}

Disclaimer: Dancer - the authoress of this work -
	and Empath - its 'publisher' - take no
	responsibility due to any harm or
	misfortune that befalls someone from
	reading or possessing this work.

Copyright: This work of prose is the intellectual
	property of Dancer, and is protected by
	the Berne Convention.  *Unauthorized*
	publication or redistribution is
	prohibited.

{Non-legalese translation: if you want to put this
on a web site, just drop us an email; we'll probably
say yes. :)}

Bonus Question: Where is the quote in the 'Warning' from? :)


_________________________________________________________________
Protect your PC - get McAfee.com VirusScan Online  
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<1st attachment, "Dreamkr1e.txt" begin>


Dream Maker (1/5) (no-sex, humor)

Dancer 2002 (c)


On the way to the airport, my agent, Daniel Hollings,
casually dropped the name of the person who was to
play 'meet 'n greet' with me when I arrived in
Oklahoma. "Are you insane?" I shrieked, nearly causing
Daniel to ram the car ahead of us. "I can't meet him!
He thinks romance novels are trash!"

Dan quickly swerved into the next lane, avoiding the
accident. "Amanda, calm down," he said in his most
ingratiating voice while flipping the driver of the
car beside him the double bird. "For one thing, he
said they were tawdry, not trashy, and another, he
doesn't know you're -the- Amanda Kiss, best-selling
authoress. All he knows is he's to meet Amanda
Kesselring and show her the sights of his home state."

"Okay," I replied and slipped off my glasses, rubbing
the bridge of my nose with two fingers. "I'll trust
you on that part, but what lame-ass story -did- you
tell him?"

"I told him you're doing some research for a client I
represent." He gestured with his right hand. "As close
to the truth as I could get and still have him agree."

Something smelled funny in Toronto and it wasn't Tim
Horton's coffee. "There had to be more than that for
him to say yes, Dan," I said and reset my glasses. "So
what else did you tell him? What 'thing' did you use
as blackmail?"

He gasped and I rolled my eyes. "Mandy, blackmail is
such a harsh term. Call it a little 'elbow twisting'."
He negotiated the turnoff for terminal two while I
waited for the rest of the story. "I just happen to
mention his latest manuscript sat on my desk-"

"Hang on. How in the hell did you manage to get your
grubby, little paws on it? I thought Bess Thornton was
his Canadian agent at Kilroy Publishing."

"She is but she's on maternity leave for the next four
months and her workload got divvied up amongst the
rest of us," Dan replied, stopping at the parking gate
and getting a ticket from the automatic machine.
"Also, Max and I are on good terms business-wise. Bess
snagged him because they use to date way back when.
Anyway, I dropped a few hints about pushing the
publishing date back another six months if he didn't
play nice and escort you around Oklahoma."

"Jesus Jones," I sighed and beat my forehead lightly
against the dashboard. "You miserable bastard. I'd
rather you told him the truth."

"Excuse me. I'm very happy in my life and my parents
were married, so neither epithet applies."

"Oh, picky, picky! Just drop me off here and I'll take
the metro home."

He found a parking spot after circling the entire
garage once. It was far from the entrance. He got out
and walked to the rear of his car, unlocking the trunk
to get my suitor. I got out when he did and joined
him. As he hoisted my bag out and placed on the
concrete, he said, "Amanda, everything will work out
in the end. It always does." He patted me on the arm,
his smile making me a tad uneasy. "Put your faith in
Danny-boy here and buck up. Now, enjoy your trip south
and give me a ring when you get there." Dan bussed my
right cheek and climbed back into his vehicle, leaving
me to carry my luggage out to the main terminal
building.

I managed to haul my bag outside and across the lanes
of traffic to one of the entrances to terminal two. I
dropped a Loony into a luggage cart holder, jerked out
one and rested the bag on top of the metal base.
Pushing the cart inside, I steered it toward one set
of departure monitors and parked out of the way of
other travelers. I scanned the screens, searching for
the 1.45 pm flight to Chicago and found it. My flight
was supposed to leave from gate C2 and on time. I
pushed my luggage cart up to one of the lines for
check-in and settled in for a long wait.

This was the part I hated the most about airline
travel - the wait for check-in. It always seemed to me
I got stuck leaving some airport during peak hours and
the game was 'hurry up and wait.' I wondered how bad
customs would be. I hadn't flown since early in 2001
but knew security at the airports in the States was
high after the hijackings in New York. I was sure I
hadn't packed anything that could be used as a weapon
but I did have some hair accessories (barrettes and
combs) that, if a person -really- wanted to jump the
pilots, might scratch the skin and draw blood. "Well,
if they get confiscated, I'll just have to buy new," I
said to myself.

"Pardon?" asked the man standing next to me in line,
sticking a finger in the pages of his paperback novel.

My face grew warm with embarrassment at being
overheard. "I've got a pair of metal hair barrettes in
my case here," I explained and he nodded his
understanding.

"Don't worry," he replied. "My daughter went through
here with something similar and the guards let her
keep them." He smiled and I returned the favor,
glancing at the book he carried. 'Rings of Saturn' by
Maxwell Stone.

I pointed at it, asking, "Would you mind? I haven't
had a chance to read that one yet and I'd like to get
a hint of what's going on." The man bent down a corner
to mark his page, then passed it over to me. I read
the back cover, disappointed it contained only quotes
from several science fiction authors and nothing about
the plot.

I flipped it to the inside and there he was in black
and white. He did pose a little likeness to Michael
Crichton - dark hair and eyes with a serious downturn
to his mouth. Following the photo was a brief
biography of his birth year (1966), where he was born
(Tulsa, OK), where he was educated (University of
Texas at El Paso) and a short listing of his novels.
Well, at least I could pick him out of the crowd when
I arrived in Tulsa, which was comforting.

I turned to the front pages and discovered a blurb of
a few sentences:

     The sand beneath his feet showed the path
     his quarry had taken. East at a run.
     Dalton Hayes checked the setting on his
     laser pistol, then set out, trailing his
     nemesis across the lonely landscape,
     completely unaware the mutinous ensign
     wasn't the only one being stalked.

Which told me nothing. Who was this ensign? What did
he do? Who was Dalton Hayes and what was stalking him?

The line had moved while I read, so I handed the book
back to the man and pushed my cart ahead. Those kinds
of intros bothered me, especially when that was all
you got for a hint of the storyline. Now my books, on
the other hand, were published with a blurb on the
back and the beginning scene of when the heroine and
hero first hook up, a teaser to catch the browser's
attention. But who was I to complain? Maxwell Stone
had no more control over how his book was finally
printed anymore than I did.

Maybe not. I did get some power over what the front
picture insert looked like, mainly because my fifth
book, 'Reaching for the Stars' described Matilyn, the
heroine, as having curly black hair that cascaded down
her spine like an oil-rich waterfall and the cover art
portrayed her as a redhead. Boy, the fans really
deluged me with critical emails and letters to Kilroy
for months, demanding the portrait be corrected.

Kilroy caved in to the pressure, ordered the artist to
redo it and republished it the next year. I think the
original is a collector's item now. It wouldn't
surprise me. People like holding onto mistakes, like
that American stamp that was printed upside-down in
the twenties.

Finally, I was next up and wheeled my luggage to the
counter. The Canadian agent looked over my ticket,
tagged the handle of my suitor, told me what gate to
go to and bid me a good flight. I sighed, knowing the
big hurdle was coming up with the security checkpoint
of customs. Strangely, there wasn't a big waiting
group when I got there. I showed my boarding pass to
the official and walked through the metal detector
cleanly. Next, another official took me aside and
asked me to spread out my arms and legs. She swiped a
detection wand over my front and I turned, letting her
do the same to my back. She thanked me for my
cooperation.

That was it? That was the new and improved Canadian
Airlines' security against terrorism? Jeez, what a let
down. But, what can I expect? This is Canada. We're a
nice, apologetic people who dislike making waves,
preferring to go along with the crowd. Okay, there is
that French-Quebec issue of autonomy that we're non-
committal about, but I'm not going to get into that. I
made it to my gate with half an hour to sit down and
relax before boarding.

The thirty minutes went quickly. The attendants called
for early boarding of passengers needing assistance
(handicapped and those with children) and Gold Mile
members, of which I was one. It's just a fancy term
for people who fly first class. I found my seat at the
front of the plane, settled in and buckled my seat
belt. The attendants gave the usual, preflight
instructions of how to do up your belt and what do if
we crashed. I tuned them out and shut my eyes for a
nap to make the time pass.

I woke up midway through and accepted a packet of
salty pretzels and a soda. Trust me, you need a drink
to choke those nasty snack foods down, and the
complimentary champagne isn't it.

It seemed to me that they'd just passed out the snacks
when they were collecting the trash before arrival. I
still had most of my soda, deciding to chug it quick
so the guy could take the can.

We landed in Chicago on time (yippee!) and I changed
planes, running through O'Hare International like the
hounds of hell were nipping at my heels. I made it
with time to spare. I'd gone through O'Hare before and
knew where I was supposed to catch my connecting
flight to Tulsa, which was on the opposite end of the
airport, naturally. They were just making the pre-
boarding announcement when I arrived, leaving me with
no chance to pee in a normal toilet. I showed the
attendant my pass, rushed down the accordion-like
tunnel and popped into the first class washroom.

My belly was just starting to cramp from the swelling
of my bladder when I unzipped my pants and sat on the
seat, pissing out a stream of urine into the blue
water with a sigh of relief. "Never again," I reminded
myself and steeled my mind against the lure of a
second Coke. I wiped with a wad of paper, refastened
my zipper and flushed, waiting for the noise to stop
before stepping out to find my seat.

I buckled up and spied a folded newspaper in the
pocket of the seat in front of me. Taking it out and
unfolding it, it was the front page of the Chicago Sun
Times. Not my forte, but I didn't have anything better
to do than take another nap. Safety instructions,
crashing, arriving at Tulsa International at 5.30 pm,
enjoy your flight, the attendants stated.

I chuckled over the 'International' tag. There's a
direct flight from somewhere (probably Mexico) to
Tulsa? Oh well. I'm sure they meant Tulsa received
visitors from other countries as a stopping point
while they flew elsewhere. Like I said, oh well.

The flight was boring (big surprise) with the same
stale pretzels handed out for a snack. Grudgingly, I
accepted the small bag but declined the offer for a
drink. I'd finished with the paper and tucked it back
inside the pocket before lowering my tray table. I
opened the pretzels and slowly nibbled on one piece,
worrying about Max Stone. All I had was what Dan told
me and the info from the paperback. Would he be there
to pick me up? Had he discovered my 'real' identity
and decided to let me fend for myself? My stomach
churned.

=======

Max stood just outside the arrivals area with an index
card in his left hand. He felt like an idiot, meeting
a stranger at the airport. How did he let Dan talk him
into this? "He threatened to hold back 'The Dawning'
another half year," Max grumbled to himself. Why did
Bess think now was a good time to start a family?

He flipped the card over and stared at the name.
Kesselring. German. He conjured up a mental picture of
a busty, tall blonde with ice blue eyes and legs that
went on forever. 'No, that's what Frieda looks like,'
he reminded himself.

Frieda Hess was Dalton Hayes' lover at Martian Base
Seven-Four. "Sad; really sad, Max,' he thought. His
dream woman was his main character's girlfriend and
even though Dalton was Max's novel self, he couldn't
think of himself screwing Frieda and not feel a pang
of adulterous guilt.

He replayed the phone call from Dan in his head for
the umpteenth time. The woman he was meeting was
Amanda Kesselring and she was doing some research for
a novel about the American South. Dan hadn't given a
physical description of Amanda, which made him
slightly uncomfortable. So maybe she wasn't the blonde
goddess of his fantasies. He swallowed the sudden lump
in his throat.

But what if she was an older lady, close to his
mother's age? "God," he groaned and began to pace.
'Please don't let her be the Canadian equivalent of
Grandma Moses.' He couldn't picture escorting a
grandmotherly-type around Oklahoma for two weeks,
especially having her stay at his place. 'Talk about
cramping your lifestyle.' He checked his wristwatch,
noting the Chicago flight should have landed already
if nothing delayed it.

People started coming through the gate. Max went on
alert, combing his hair back with his fingers, and
then stroking the corners of his mouth out of habit.
He lifted the card up to his chest, high enough for
people disembarking to read. He cocked an eyebrow as a
leggy blonde walked toward him and he whispered a
prayer, "Let it be her." The woman went passed him and
into the arms of a man behind him. Still eyeing the
blonde, he never noticed the young woman standing in
front of him until she coughed discreetly.

"Maxwell Stone?" she asked and he looked, adjusting
his sight downward a bit. Not the Germanic gal he
dreamt of but a brunette about five foot six. Her eyes
were blue though, if that counted. Some of her hair
was pulled back in a ponytail while the rest spilled
across the shoulders of her jacket in thick, curling
waves. Her wire-framed glasses made her look studious
and put him off a little. "I think you're waiting for
me." She brushed a finger against the card he held.

"Amanda Kesselring, right?" he asked, content that she
was at least three decades younger than his mother.
Catching himself, he halted that train of thought
before it left the station. 'Why should I care how old
she is?' he asked himself. And the glasses - why did
he think they put him off? It wasn't like he wanted
her as a lover. 'Jeez, we've just met two seconds
ago!' He folded the card into quarters, stuffed it
into his back pocket and motioned her to follow him.
"We should get your bags now," he told her as she fell
into step beside him.

They rode the escalator down to the lower level and
strolled passed a few open shops on their way to the
luggage carousel. "This your first trip to the
States?" Max asked. Amanda shook her head. "No. I've
been around California, the east coast and part of the
Midwest but this is my first time in Oklahoma. I have
to say it really is 'OK'." Her pun of the state's
motto made him smile. Maybe her visit wouldn't be so
bad after all. A sense of humor counted for a lot in
his book.

They followed the signs, arriving at the pick up point
midway through the rush. People milled around the
area. The conveyor belt was motionless, meaning the
airport guys hadn't unloaded the bags from the Chicago
flight yet. Amanda and Max stood together close to the
machine, prepared for the moment it began working.
"Mr. Stone?"

"Max," he replied, watching her flush a little at the
correction.

"Okay, Max," she said and twisted her fingers around
each other. "I have to tell you something Daniel
neglected to mention." His mind started racing. 'Dan's
sent her down here as a 'mail-order girlfriend,'' was
his first thought. Nothing against her but he wasn't
that hard up for dates. There were plenty of women who
wanted him, usually for the prestige of his name and
the five-figure advances he received for his books.
His second and third thoughts were, 'She's gay' and
'She's married'. Whatever it was, it must be huge the
way she's squirming and shifting around. "I'm a
writer," she finally blurted out, biting her lips
while she waited for his reaction.

"So? Dan told me already."

"Well, I've been published." Her body language was
screaming at him. He frowned, wondering what about her
writing was so bad. She refused to meet his gaze,
opting for peering up at him over the lenses of her
glasses. Did she compete with him in the science
fiction/fantasy arena? Her wringing hands and lip
chewing was concerning him.

He reached out a hand and touched her on the shoulder
- a mistake. His fingers connected with her long hair
and he rubbed a curl between his fingers and thumb,
thinking how soft and thick it felt. "Amanda, whatever
you want to tell me can't be that horrible," he said,
unconsciously brushing her hair behind her shoulder.
Wayward strands of chocolate brown caught his fingers,
wrapping themselves around the digits.

She felt the tug on her hair when he tried to extract
himself and brought her left hand up to help out. "I
write those romance novels you aren't fond of."

That was it? The big thing she looked so distraught
over? "Oh, I see my bag," she informed him and gave
him a shove toward the carousel. He stumbled but
managed to catch himself before knocking into the
crowd ahead of him.

"It's the black duffle with a blue and white ribbon
tied onto the zipper." She hopped up and down,
pointing. "There is goes, Max!" He apologized as he
pushed through the throng of people, leaned down and
snagged the bag before it got away.

Carrying it over, Max said, "Let's go see if my car is
still out there."

"Why wouldn't it be?" she asked, synching her steps
with his.

"There's been a rash of car thefts around the airport
for the past couple of weeks," he replied, noticing
her breathing becoming ragged and slowing his stride
accordingly.

"I had my car stolen once. I got it back the same day,
parked right where it was taken with twenty kilometers
on the odometer and a full tank of gas." He chuckled
along with her. "Even Canadian thieves are polite."

"Where in Canada are you from?" Max pushed open the
door to the outside and let her go first.

"Originally, Newfoundland. But I was part of the
yearly migration to Toronto."  His blank look told her
to give more detail.  "You know what Maine's like?"
He nodded.  "Well, cut it loose from the continent and
haul it maybe a hundred miles offshore - that's
Newfoundland."

"So you're sort of a younger J.B. Fletcher who rights
bodice-rippers instead of whodunits."

Before she could reply he pointed toward the parking
garage in front of them, saying, "It's the red
Cadillac two-door over there. You can see it between
the concrete supports."

"Don't you have a truck?" Amanda queried. "I can't get
into the story without the stereotypical mode of
transport."

"What are you working on anyway?" They walked across
the frontage road via the pedestrian crosswalk, and
then took the smoothed ramp up to the garage.

She didn't answer right away and he thought he knew
the reason behind her silence. "You can tell me after
I get your bag stowed and we're inside."

"Thanks," she said with a brief smile, then leaned
closer and whispered, "You never know who's listening
and might jerk the rug out from underneath you."

Her breath warmed his right cheek, along with certain
points south. Not enough to be visible but just enough
to be annoying. He chalked his body's reaction to
knowing she wrote what he considered soft-core porn.
Then again, her voice had that breathless,
confidential quality to it due to the brisk workout
her legs got trying to keep pace with him. Or after
she'd been thoroughly loved.

'Don't go there,' he commanded his brain. He pulled
out his car keys and hit the button to turn off the
alarm system, the double beep echoing off the
concrete.

He unlocked his side first, opened the door and placed
her bag on the back seat. He got behind the brown
leather-clad wheel and reached over to yank up the
door lock on her side. She climbed in and buckled her
belt, adjusting the slack a bit.

"I do have a pick-up, if it's any consolation," Max
informed his passenger as he did up his own belt, then
started the car.

"Is it a battered, faithful blue one with bad shocks?"

He snorted. "No. It's a '96 short-bed, red Chevy with
a topper." He backed out of the spot, shifted into
drive and headed for the exit. "And the shocks are
just fine." He stopped at one of the tollgates and
paid his ticket.

Amanda kept quiet, giving him the chance to
concentrate on getting out of the airport property and
onto the main highway. "The car's not bugged so it's
safe to talk," he said.

"Dan says I need to write a book based somewhere in
the American South," she told him. "Texas is pretty
big right now as a background for the story. You know,
the wildness of the state and men being perfect
gentlemen until they fall in love with the women they
despised at the beginning of the book. My theory is
Texas is hot because of that line, 'Everything's
bigger in Texas'. I assume that includes the male
anatomy as well."

Max coughed, not expecting her to be so forthright.
She rubbed her left hand over his upper arm in a
soothing gesture. "Look, I know my books have racy
content but that's what my readers want. Most romance
readers are women looking for a little fantasy
fulfillment and I cater to that."

=======

I'm fairly sure I'd embarrassed him with my speech.
His tan was somewhat ruddier across his cheekbones and
the tops of his ears turned an adorable shade of light
pink. Hmm, I'll have to remember that and add it as
part of my hero's blushing technique. On the flight,
I'd thought of the title for my next novel, 'Chasing
Raymond', and the hero's name would be Raymond Chase.
Betcha didn't see that one coming!

Guy's names I could think up on the spot but the
women's were harder. I always put a part of me into
the female character and like for her name to reflect
her biggest strength. 'Maybe Carmen,' I posed to
myself. The Carmens I knew of were vibrant, strong-
willed ladies and gave off the vibe that they'd fight
for their man to the death. Yes, Carmen would work.
Carmen Parker. That was done. I could turn my
attention back on the okay Oklahoman chauffeuring me
around Tulsa.

Maxwell's jacket picture did nothing for him. Instead
of black hair, his was burnished brown with red and
blonde highlights from the sun. And he was shorter
than I expected, about five-nine. I don't know why I
thought he'd be taller, closer to six feet, and
figured it was because of the Michael Crichton
resemblance - Mike's six-four or something.

Anyway, back to Maxwell. His best feature (to me) was
those long, long legs of his encased in snug denim
which cradled his butt if you don't mind my saying so.
During the walk through the airport, I dawdled by
gazing at his butt, and then had to play catch-up so
he wouldn't know I'd been checking him out.

His eyes were very dark, a rich coffee-and-cream color
that disguised his pupils. All this from carefully
planned, sidelong glances I hoped he didn't notice.

My hand was still on his arm. I took it away
reluctantly and rested it in my lap again. "Sorry
about that," I said and tried my best to look
apologetic.

"It's fine," he replied. "If you don't mind my asking,
why come to Tulsa? It's nowhere near Texas."

Shrugging, I answered, "I like to be different. Other
authors are writing up Texas like it's going out of
style and I think people might like a change of
scenery, so to speak. I can play up a rivalry. Carmen
can tell Ray-"

"What? Who's Carmen and Ray?"

"My main characters," I explained. "Anyways, Carmen
can tell Ray she doesn't believe he'll measure up to a
Texan and, of course, he'll insist on proving her
wrong."

"Ah," he said and shot me a quick glance. "I take it
that little argument will lead to the initial physical
encounter." My stomach chose that moment to growl. Max
patted my shoulder and chuckled, "We'll be at my place
in ten minutes. Can you hang on that long? I've got a
roast in the oven for supper."

"Mmm," I replied with a sweet grin, my stomach calming
down at his promise of nourishment. "Mashed potatoes,
too?"

He grinned. "Yep. Homemade. I threw a couple in with
the roast along with some carrots and onions."

"You better not be teasing me, Maxwell."

"Just Max."

I demurred, "Okay, Max. I get tetchy when someone says
they're having one thing for dinner and they give me
something completely different. I've fallen for that
trick too many times. Don't be surprised when the
first thing I do is check the oven."

"Thanks for the warning," he said, pulling into a
winding, graveled drive. It led us toward a ranch-
style abode painted white with an attached, double
garage on the right. I felt slightly let down, maybe
because I guessed he'd live in a two-story with a
sprawling ranch surrounding it. The front yard was
groomed with neatly trimmed grass and a line of
hedgerows squared it off, using the house as the
fourth side. There was a break in the shrubbery from a
walkway of placed stepping-stones that connected the
drive to the front door.

Something was wrong to me or out of place. "What's
that look for?" he asked, tapping a flat button on the
device clipped to his visor and making one of the
garage doors open.

"There's something missing," I said with a frown. I
craned my head around the car, peering out all the
windows. "Trees. You don't have any trees on your
property," I happily exclaimed.

The door was fully up and he pulled in, shifting into
park and turning off the ignition. "This is part of
Tornado Alley," he said and I nodded, understanding
the lack of foliage. Why plant trees when a cyclone or
tornado tears through town on a yearly basis? Max said
exactly what I was thinking and I laughed, telling him
so. "Great minds think alike," he shrugged but I took
it as a compliment.

"I have a great mind? You really think so?" I undid my
seat belt when he did and his reply waited until we
were both outside the vehicle.

Withdrawing my suitor and setting it on the ground
next to his feet, he leaned an arm against the roof of
the Caddy and answered, "Amanda, you do. You write in
a genre that can get stale and repetitive fast. It
takes a great mind not to write the same thing over
and over, to keep each story fresh and separate from
everything else on the market." His eyes narrowed a
bit. "What name do you write under? I don't recall a
Kesselring in the stacks of the library."

My turn to blush. Saying my pseudonym out loud made it
sound like a proposition. "I'm trusting you not to
outright laugh in my face, Max," I said sternly but
braced myself for the inevitable jokes. "Amanda Kiss."

"I guess I don't see the humor," he said with a quirky
half grin. "I can see the romantic quality of it but
not the funny."

God, he wanted me explain! "Just say it out loud a
couple times and I think you'll get the joke."

"Amanda Kiss," he said and I felt a little flutter of
warmth across my body. It had to be his gender. Oh,
and the soft tone he spoke it in, the hissing of the
double esses whistled when his tongue pushed toward
his teeth. "Amanda Kiss." He said is quicker the
second time, the Kiss on the heels of my first name
and he got it. "A man to kiss; Amanda Kiss. Kind of
like Mike Hunt." He paused between the Mike and Hunt
and I grinned over at him. "Why didn't you use your
real name?"

I walked around the rear of the car and he waited for
me. "I tried but someone in the editing staff kept
spelling my last name 'el ee' instead of 'ee el'."
We went through the garage to the outside and he
pressed the rectangular box just inside the small,
vertical partition between each garage. The door began
to descend in relative silence.

"I remembered back in school when Les Kaven broke into
the office and started paging people over the intercom
system. You know. 'Would Peter Wanker please come to
the office?'"

"Did he get caught?" Max unlocked his front door,
shoved it open and motioned for me to go ahead of him.

"Uh-huh," I stepped in and aside, nervous. I looked
around.

I stood in a short hall beside a shuttered closet and
came to grips with the fact he brought in more money
than I ever could. I guess science fiction pays
better. The carpet under my feet was an oatmeal-
colored tweed with little to no pile to it. The walls
were the obligatory off-white and decorated with a few
pictures and prints. "This is a lot nicer than my
condo," I breathed and darted a glance in his
direction.

He shied away by saying, "Your room's this way, next
to the bathroom." He went first and led me down the
rest of the hall, rounding a corner to the left. We
strolled down another hall, past the bathroom and into
the guest room.

It had gray paneling along the walls with lacy
curtains and a shade hanging in the two windows. The
same carpeting from the front hall covered the floor
here and the bed was fairly large, a double or full
size I guessed, strategically placed away from both
windows in a far corner.

He set my duffle near the closet. "I'm going to check
the roast. You can come with me if you like," he said,
holding his arm out in a guiding gesture.

"You go on," I replied. "I'll stay here and unpack."

"Okay." He dropped his arm to his right side. "I'll
give a shout when supper's ready." I nodded to him
with a smile, then softly sighed as I watched his cute
derriere (along with the rest of his hot bod) walk out
of the room.

I crouched down and unlocked the small brass lock
securing my bag, pulling back the zipper. My pants and
jeans came out first and I carried the stack over to
the closet, hugging my clothes to my chest while I
turned the knob with my free hand.

The closet was bare except for the usual bunch of
plastic hangers. I threaded the legs of each pair over
a hanger, then hooked it on the metal bar. I surveyed
the space. Most of my clothes would fit in here just
fine, aside for my socks and underwear.

Glancing around, I spied a five-drawer dresser next to
one of the windows. I walked over, tugged open the top
drawer, returned to my duffle, grabbed most of my
undergarments and deposited them inside. A second trip
proved necessary. I couldn't get my brassieres along
with my panties and socks and I was hauling them over
when Max popped in. I jumped in surprise and one bra
fluttered onto the carpet, inches away from his feet.
"Supper's ready," he told me and bent down to retrieve
the article.

My mouth suddenly went dry as cotton. The skin tone of
his hand contrasted with the stark whiteness as he
rubbed his fingers against the material. I gave myself
permission to be shaky on the reasoning he was male
and my bra held up a pair of feminine assets.

It wasn't even a sexy one either, just plain white
nylon over cotton padding with extra support on the
sides. No frills or useless lace or little ribbons
decorating the cups - absolutely nothing to be ashamed
of or concerned about. So why was my body unable to
create saliva and there was a large lump in my throat?

Max folded it into a compact bundle with a deftness
that told me he'd folded plenty of women's bras in his
day. He offered it to me and I snatched it from his
fingers, throwing it in with the rest I held as I
dumped the lot into the drawer and closed it with an
unwarranted slam. I slipped off my jacket and tossed
onto the foot of the bed, saying too brightly, "Good
'cause I'm starving."

=======
More to come...
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