She sat across from him at a small table in a black-on-black bar. She was dressed in red because he liked it, candy-apple high heels, and a necklace he’d given her five years ago on her birthday.

She fingered the silver medallion, a St. Christopher, as she watched him order a drink.

“How’ve you been?” he asked when the waiter left their circle of candle light.

“The same,” she shrugged. “Same as last time.”

“Nothing’s changed? It’s been half a year,” he said.

“Eight months,” she replied.

He said nothing and she looked out into the darkness wondering where the waiter had gone.

“Too long,” he said. “I’ve been busy.”

She nodded as if she were listening.

It hurt to look at him. She found herself thinking of Moses and the promised land. The ache of seeing something you spent a life time looking for, the agony of knowing no matter how close you were you’d never leave the wilderness. That was a story about love unrequited.

“I was in Russia for two months and in Africa for nine weeks,” he said.

That left 3 months and four weeks unaccounted for, didn’t it?

She tried to do the math in her head, wished she had a pen so she could put it on her napkin. Thirty days hath November…

“I’m glad to see you.”

She looked at him in some surprise. “Why?”

She wanted to add, “Is every other girl you like to fuck and abandon busy? Where am I on that list anyway? What number…Who did you call before me?”

“We’re friends, aren’t we?”

The waiter came back, dropped off their drinks. Gin and tonic for her. Old fashioned for him.

Same drinks, same date, same euphoria mixed with misery.  All she wanted to do was look at him, suck him in with her eyes and swallow the old lie that they had something that meant anything ever.

She picked up her drink, dreading the bite of ice and lime. She didn’t drink, hated drinking, but this scene they’d played half a dozen times was called “friends catch up”. It called for alcohol as a prop and so she took a sip.

“Are you angry with me?”

She thought about his list, her number on it. If she was at four months now, maybe she was number four or five on his list of women. If she spoke her mind she might be off his list completely. She might, on the other hand, be interesting again and that might make her number one for a week or two…

“Every date with you is like throwing dice,” she she said.

The words hung in the air over the table until silence drove her to speak again.

“I mean, it’s been eight months.”

He said nothing still.

“No email, never a phone call, no one is really ever that busy.”

A long silence and then he said, “I wanted to see you and I think you came because you wanted to be seen.”

She fingered the medal around her neck, silver, expensive, the patron saint of travellers. St. Christopher. He carried the Christ Child across a treacherous river, his burden becoming heavier with each step, until at the end he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He almost drowned but, at long last, he’d been able to put his burden down.

She’d worn this gift for the better part of five years, taking it off, one nite at a time, when she went on dates with other men. She thought it looked a little like a dog tag, and every time she put it on she found herself remembering him, remembering moments like this where there was only an aching need.

She pulled on the chain, felt it bite into her neck.

“You spend an evening or two with me, fucking me in the heart, then leave me to fester until next time. I don’t really think we’re friends.”

He sat utterly still for a long moment.

Then he sighed and lifted a hand to his breast pocket. A wallet appeared, then a fifty dollar bill. She saw it flutter to the table.

She jerked hard on the necklace. A link broke and the chain hung from her hand.

“What you want is to rape me over and over again. You want to watch my agony and taste my grief-”

He stood and she did too.

“You want me adrift. Lost until you look for me again. Knowing that one day you won’t…”

She held out her hand.

“Give this to your next victim. Think of me when you fuck her.”

He took the necklace, studied the image for a moment, spoke without looking at her.

“You’re angry because I don’t see you more…so you’re ensuring I don’t see you at all?” He looked up to meet her eyes. “Phones work both ways you know, and email too. I can’t always be with you. But I very much enjoy hearing from you.  You never call…”

“Because you may not answer,” she said. “Usually you don’t. And my world already stops…waits…every minute I’m not with you. I can’t live in the gaps. I don’t know how I’ll live with less, but this is agony.”

He studies her for a long time.

“Is this really what you want?” he asked.

“Just go,” she said.

After a long moment he nodded, turned and walked into the darkness.

It had been a day of shit. One thing after another. A Saturday. A day off. But from the second he opened his eyes…

He was irritated. He was angry. He was bored. He was stuck at home with me. He couldn’t go to work today. Or he could cause he ran the joint, but there was no one there.

No adoration to be found in the halls or at the desks. His chorus of paid syncophants was taking time off from their duty in the celestial choir.

And the thing is…I did love him. Or I had. I could remember my admiration for him. Intelligent. Brilliant. Dynamic and Handsome. Charisma, I’ve discovered, is about 7/8th not knowing what the fuck someone attractive is going to do next. Its “theater on the hoof”. Stand around and watch it happen…

I swore I’d always love him. I thought I would. I loved my parents still. I loved my siblings. I loved a dog for a decade and a parrot for two. Why shouldn’t I love this guy?

But that day…I was responsible for the neighbor’s landscape gardener coming before ten. I was at fault for the lack of fresh bagles in the house. My mistake the milk was old. No movies he wanted to see? Me. Politician’s too stupid? Me. Rain? My fault he hadn’t parked the car in the garage.

I remember he was ranting and when it hit me that I didn’t care. Didn’t want to care. I was a stranger in my house…and suddenly it was his house. Suddenly it, and he, were nothing to do with me. Suddenly…it was over.

My love snapped like a kite string and I sailed away from him or maybe watched him sail away from me.

I packed my credit cards, my phone, I said I had to go to work. I told him that I loved him and I said I hoped the day’d get better.

I said I’d be back later.

But I knew I’d never be back.

Her castle under seige, the lives of her family at stake, Eleanor is forced to marry the brutal warrior responsible for the death of her beloved brother. She vows Lord Trevich will never know a moment’s peace while she lives.

A Woman’s Honor is a an illustrated historical romance set in the 15th century. This romance novel contains relatively graphic descriptions of sex and violence similar to those found in most historical romances. All images are suitable for general viewing.

Romantic Times says: “… A WOMAN’S HONOR is a well-written medieval romance. A bit violent, with an unfaithful hero, it does fit the time period and I found it impossible to stop reading.” — Susan Mobley

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I’m writing this letter and giving it to Charlie because I know he’ll give it to you. It’s not like Charlie hides who he is.

First let me tell you about Charlie, and about how much you love him, so you’ll believe we know the same man.

Charlie is the smartest man you’ve ever met. He’s handsome and charming, creative and brilliant, and when you’re with him you can hardly believe he’s human. But what’s really special about Charlie, or Charles as he sometimes prefers to be called, is how he makes you feel.

When you’re with Charlie you feel understood from the inside out. He is always one step ahead of you, always ready for what you’re about to say. He’s impossible to surprise, or so it seems, and he knows what you want almost before you do. And let’s be clear, he knows what you really want. Not the things you’re supposed to want, like flowers and candy and romantic evenings out. But the sexy, sweaty, demented things no one ever wants to confess…particularly to someone as cool as Charlie.

I’m here to tell you, after two years with this man, he really is that different from everyone you’ve ever met. If there’s an Einstein of the human heart…perhaps the feminine soul…this guy is it.

Now let me tell you the bad news . . .

You will never climb inside his head as deep as he is in yours. You will never understand him, never be able to predict him, never find a way to control him. Furthermore, understanding you and predicting your responses will not translate into him giving you everything you want. In fact, over time he becomes an expert in how little he has to give you to keep you in line.

You’ll learn that you can ask, then plead, then demand and then threaten all to no avail. You’ll discover that he can can melt from love to rage in a matter of seconds, can slice and dice you into a hundred pieces by talking to you, or cut you into a million pieces by leaving you alone.

You’ll learn that he’s taken your measure long ago, probably in the earliest hours you spent with him, and from that day forward he has had you chained. You can get away, but only by breaking that link to him, and it’s something you can’t bear to do because the moments you get with him…the few moments when he seems to care…are so incredible.

You’ll find yourself surviving between those moments with great difficulty and, tragically, they will get further and further apart.

I’m not writing this note to warn you.

By the time you get to read this I think you’ll be too far gone to contemplate walking out the door.

Instead I will tell you exactly what to do if you want to maximize the number of happy minutes you’ll have with him. 

Listen to the little he says about how he feels, do what he tells you, and assume that’s enough to make him happy. Don’t attempt to do more. If he wants something more he’ll ask for it. Any significant initiative on your part is unwelcome. He’ll see the impulse for what it is, your attempt to capture more of his time and attention and he’ll resent it.

Don’t expect him to call or come over when you’re ill. Don’t be surprised when he forgets your birthday, calls off a date you’ve been planning for weeks, or shows up hours late to an important event. All those expectations are misplaced.

Don’t press him to define your relationship. He’ll tell you its exclusive…and it will be. But every past girlfriend would have him back and he has a half dozen girls he’s spoken to within the last month who’d love to date him. You are not in a position to ask for more time, more attention, more…anything.

He’ll tell you that he loves you, and he does. It doesn’t mean you’ll be walking done the aisle or moving in. There is no place to progress to from where you are.

You have already arrived.

In all honesty, you’ll do best, and perhaps be happiest, if you can simply surrender to doing what Charlie wants when he wants, and give up wanting anything yourself.

If Charlie is the “perfect man” you must become the “perfect woman” to accommodate him. Beautiful, intelligent, submissive, attentive, open, yielding, available…unreal and unburdened with the kind of human emotions that will lead you to reach out to a guy in the middle of the night when you just want a friend and a partner…not a God.

Since you’re already in the Charlie-Sphere, where reality is bolder and brighter than ever before, I urge you to enjoy yourself.  You’ll remember these days for the rest of your life and count yourself lucky to have had them.

One day, like me, you will climb off the roller coaster. He’ll have found someone else or you’ll have grown too frantic and too tired to continue the game.

When you do escape you’ll be surprised how much time has gone by and how empty you have let your world become.

And you’ll have learned that you’ll never be the perfect woman the way Charlie is the perfect man. You’d have to cut out your heart to do that. You’ll be a little wiser, a little older and a little sadder, and like an exile from Shang-ri-la you’ll have to forget a lot to be happy again.

Somehow along the way you’ll have also discovered that Charlie isn’t that happy either.

When it’s easy to move from girl to girl, distraction to distraction, you don’t have to examine yourself and your life and make the hard decisions about what life is for and what you came to this planet to do.

You can live on the surface of things. Trusting people is hard and being worthy of their trust requires discipline and sacrifice.  Charlie hasn’t met a girl that merits that investment yet. I’m betting he never will.

Could be I’m all wrong about Charlie and all wrong about what will happen to you and I really hope that’s true. I hope you have the biggest wedding ever.

But if I’m right, I hope you enjoy the ride . . . as so many have before you.

Charlie’s Ex

Ruined!, which you can get on this site for free, tells the story of a young well-born woman who, having been turned into a servant in her Uncle’s house, must choose to submit to poverty and degradation at his hands or make her own way in the world by finding a protector. Set in 18th century London, this sensuous historical romance novel reveals some of the realities of living when a woman really could not make her way in the world without a man.

To see images of this time, look at Hogarth’s A Rake’s Progress. Beautiful dresses, expensive houses, lavish meals and women in every state of poverty, sacrifice and despair.

As many as one in five women in London were harlots, or prostitutes who were paid for sex. Many died of sexually transmitted diseases and child birth, as well as starvation and abuse.  Many started in childhood . . .

Reading about 18th century London, and seeing images from that time, allows us to see our own world and our own relationships differently.  One of the interesting things about historical romance, when it strives to be somewhat accurate as well as entertaining, is that it shows the impact of tradition, culture, and law on the intimate lives of men, women and children. One can fantasize about living in a harder, more dangerous world, and come back grateful to a world where we do have human rights, protection for children, and enough food to eat.

We hope you enjoy Ruined! . . .

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BEST Short Film Ever! Well the best darn one we’ve seen this week. Enjoy.

Check out the production team at http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0351518/

Dear Richard,

My doctor says I have to write a letter to you about all the lies you told me while we were married. I told him that you’d never read it. I told him you never cared about anything I had to say. He’s told me in the past that you  sounded like a classic narcissist,  so I know I’m probably right.

Did you know there’s such a thing as a narcissist? That it’s not just a self-centered person but someone with a shattered personality?

Narcissists are charming, Richard, they become whatever you need them to be when they want something from you and they become monsters when you can’t, or won’t, give them what they want. If you aren’t feeding a narcissist pretty pictures of themselves, if you have needs of your own, well then a narcissist finds you disposable.

So I guess that’s the first lie you ever told me. You said you loved me.

You lied when you said we’d have a house and kids, that we’d build a life together and grow old. You lied when you said there was hope for us and we had good reasons to stay together. You told me your rages were all my fault and that if I just learned how not to make you mad we’d be fine. I just had to be sensitive. You said I was lying when I told you I felt like I was walking on egg shells, felt like I lived in a war zone, felt like I was in prison. You said you didn’t need to go to a doctor, to a psychologist, to rage classes or a priest.

When you started hurting me, you said I was exaggerating my pain and making too much of my injuries. You made me tell my mother…my whole family…I fell down stairs at work when I broke my leg. When you sent me to the hospital with a sliced up arm, I had to tell the doctors that I hurt myself because you were right there in the corner watching me.

I think every happy minute we ever spent together was a lie, Richard. It just set the trap for the agony of every evening I spent without you, every new girlfriend you  made sure I found out about, every time I looked for you in my bed and didn’t find you there.

I didn’t lie to you when I said I loved you, Richard. I didn’t lie when I said I’d stick with you through thick and thin. I didn’t lie when I promised “til death do us part”.

I lied to you only once, Richard, and that’s when I said the gun wasn’t loaded.

But I had to…or you’d have taken it away from me. You thought it was a joke, that I was a joke, and you laughed at me.

You called me your little “mouse” until you heard me roar.

I’m sorry I killed you, Richard and your little girlfriend too. But, as you so often used to say, people in love sometimes hurt one another.

This time, for the first time, I hurt you.

Now that I’ve finished this stupid assignment the Doctor will have to let me spend an hour in the prison garden, and maybe next week I’ll get to watch some TV.

Someday they’ll let me out of here Richard and I promise I’ll visit your grave and give you some flowers.  You always used to apologize to me when you hurt me Richard, and one day I’ll get to return the favor.

I look forward to that day Richard, and then I look forward to living the rest of my life without you.

Eve

“Somehow I lost my place in our relationship,” she said when he arrived.

She was seated at a table for two upon which the remains of a meal for one waited to be cleared away.

“I told you I might be late,” he said seating himself. He declined the menu offered by the waiter, asking for coffee only.

“Except you say that every time we make a date to meet,” she said, “And you are, in fact, always late.”

“Would you rather I hadn’t come?”

She waited a long moment.

“I feel like I was reading this love story some time last year. A man, a woman, a pair with things to talk about and stuff they liked to do. And then…I guess I put it down only to take up another book about other people who apparently have nothing in common and seem to like one another very much less.”

“Jesus,” he said.

The coffee arrived then and they were both silent until the waiter disappeared.

“We have fun when we spend time together. You know we do-”

“Actually I can’t afford to,” she said. “Letting myself remember how much I like you…how much I love spending time with you…is a recipe for misery in a matter of days. Hours sometimes.”

He stirred sugar into his coffee, spoke carefully. ”I don’t want to do this. I enjoy spending time with you. I enjoy our time together. There’s no reason to let it go.”

“No reason except that I really do love you…and while I love you I can’t love anyone…anything…else. And I can’t ask you to be better or different. It’s like asking you to pretend and I don’t want to be lied to.”

He raised his eyes to hers.

“I had to get gas,” he said slowly.

“Now let me make a long list of the meals I’ve eaten alone, movies I’ve seen alone, events I’ve gone to alone. Let me list all the excuses…when you bother to make excuses which you usually don’t.”

“Shall we really stop seeing one another because I couldn’t get to my own funeral to time?”

She looked away then, strugging with tears.

“Just forgive me for being late.”

“All the time?”

“All the time.”

Unable to look at him, she shook her head. “I can’t.”

“It doesn’t mean I don’t love you. It doesn’t mean I don’t want to see you. It doesn’t mean anything more than I’ve never gotten anywhere on time. I’m an idiot and inconsiderate not disenchanted or out of love.”

“I can’t take that for the next fifty years.”

“Well…is it the worst thing about me?”

She nods.

“Maybe…I’m not so bad. There are worse things a guy can be, aren’t there?”

She did cry then.

He rose to sit on her side of the table and took up her hand.

“I’m sorry I was late,” he said. “That’s not a lie…I’ll work harder not to be late. That’s not a lie either. I didn’t mean to hurt you and I don’t want to stop seeing you. Those things are true too. And I’m glad you told me you were angry. I’m glad I just didn’t find an empty table here instead.”

She wiped the tears off her face, and shook her head.  ”I’m afraid to pick up our love story again and yet it would break my heart not to…”

The Earl of Kettering leaned against the wall that ran the length of the terrace and watched the girl before him pace. Why in the world had she brought him out into the chill of an early spring night? He had thought she truly might be ill, but now she walked back and forth, peering into the ballroom windows as though looking for someone. Could she be afraid of something?

“I assume you did not bring me out here for a stolen embrace,” he said. He was too old for these games and it was time she knew it.

“What?” asked the girl. She turned to him as if startled to find him capable of speech. “I beg your pardon,” she amended.

She approached him then, still casting glances behind her.

Whatever she was afraid of, Devon decided, she was about to find out that he was far more dangerous.

“Why did you bring me out here?” He made his voice harsh.

“I…I felt faint.” The girl was surprised at his tone. She took a step back. Once again she looked over her shoulder.

“Enough!” Devon grabbed her wrist and jerked her down a short flight of stone steps onto the lawn. He blocked her way back to the lighted walk. Perhaps she would now give him her undivided attention.

“What are you doing!” she demanded.

“Tell me what you are doing,” he demanded.

“I am trying to avoid someone.” She admitted at last. She had the good grace to look ashamed as she spoke the words.

“And that would be?” Devon asked.

“I…I do not think –“ she stopped, started again. “Its none of your business!”

“I think you are going to answer my question,” Devon replied. Having just managed to avenge his father’s murder, and still waiting to take full control of the family estates, he could ill afford a scandal. Most certainly he did not need to be caught up in some fancy with this girl-child.

There was a pause. He saw her gauging her distance from help and their relative sizes.

“Lord Norfolk.” she said at last. Then, as if she thought this might require some explanation, she continued in a lowered voice. “He takes liberties.”

Lord Norfolk? That popinjay teasing her in the ballroom? Black’s blood suddenly ran cold. What a fool he was! She was trying to free herself from an over ardent admirer. She was using him!

“I see,” he said. If she had cast him as her new lover, by God he would play the part. In a motion made swift by years of combat he had her by the shoulder.

“Lord Norfolk takes liberties,” he said as he pulled her with him into the shadows. In a moment he was half seated along the slanted wall that lined the stairs. She was standing between his legs. “Let us see,” he said, “I am sure he does this.”

It was, Corwyn reflected with amazement, everything she had ever imagined a kiss could be. His lips brushed hers, once, twice, then finally lingered. He deepened the kiss, his tongue entering her mouth, exploring her as though he had an eternity to spend.

“And this of course,” he whispered. His free hand found the slope of her breast, caressing it through the thin fabric of her bodice. Startled at the surge of heat that coursed through her, she tried to pull away. He held her still, lowered his eyes to watch as he swept the troublesome cloth aside. One full soft globe appeared in the moonlight and his thumb worried its tip into a peak.

“And this too.” He bent his leonine head to the untried flesh, tasted her, then suckled gently.

Corwyn gasped, her back arched. Her hand came up, tapered fingers finding purchase in the dark mass of his hair. Then he was kissing her again, standing as he ran his hands the length of her body, pressing her against him. Then he shoved her away, eyes hard. “No wonder Lord Norfolk takes liberties. You offer them in abundance.” He watched as she struggled to right her clothes, enjoying her embarrassment.

“You bastard.” Corwyn said the words without thinking.

He cocked his head to one side. “You have no idea what a bastard I can be,” he said. “But you will certainly find out if anything comes of this little farce.” He brushed past her into the moonlit garden.

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“I guess…I wouldn’t mind knowing where I came from one day,” said Kate slowly. She turned around.

Stewart was sitting at the table, leaning back in his chair, watching her. His dark hair was a little long and framed sculpted features. His shoulders were broad, arms well muscled. He looked more like a soldier than an archaeologist. How could an archaeologist, a university professor, be so fit?

“Where did you come from?” Stewart asked, looking up.

“I was left at Saint Anne’s as a newborn. The nuns knew nothing about me. I came from…nowhere,” she said. The kettle whistled and she turned off the burner, “Its not uncommon for young mothers to abandon infants I’m told. It happens every day.”

“You said you wanted to know more about our brand of witchcraft,” said Stewart. “That kind of information has a price much higher than a token thrown into a Beltane fire. My associates and I share a commitment more binding than…marriage let’s say. Its not something to be undertaken lightly.”

Kate pulled plates and a teacake from the cupboard and placed both on the table along with the teapot and cups. A moment later she sat across from him, eyes lowered. “I don’t want to get married. I’m just curious.”

“Pity,” said Stewart. “We’d like to have you. We have a use for a woman just at the moment. Generally we don’t.”

“What kind of use?” Kate asked.

“Kate, that’s not the way it works.”

Once again she was struck by their odd color. Gray, like broken stone. She could see flecks of silver, or was it blue in their depths.

“You have to join and serve just like the rest of us…”

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