As the event wound down, Brian excused himself from the crowd surrounding him, picked up a fresh drink, and carefully stepped over the velvet rope placed to keep attendees from the second floor of the club. The house music faded slowly as he climbed the stairs.
He was all but running away from his own book signing, but he needed a few minutes of relative quiet.
The top of the stairway opened onto a balcony overlooking the first floor. The music was once again loud, but it was dark, and he was no longer besieged by a horde of people asking the same questions over and over. Booths stretched out on both sides, and he stayed away from those on his left lest someone from below see him.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he could make out figures in some of the booths on his right.
Apparently, he thought, I'm not the only one looking for privacy.
He walked to the far end of the balcony, and sat down in the last booth. He propped his right elbow on the table, and dropped his head into his hand. He massaged his forehead with his fingers as he swirled Coca-Cola around in the glass in his left hand. He heard the ice in his drink clinking against the sides of the glass. After a minute, he took a sip.
"Christ," he said, out loud. "Whose bonehead idea was it to have a book signing in a club?"
"Mine," said a decidedly female voice in the dark.
He turned his head to the left. She stood in the aisle, silhouetted by the lights from below.
"Well," she continued, "it's not all my fault. My agency worked with yours. We thought it would boost interest amongst a younger crowd; late 20s, early 30s."
The figure stepped closer. He'd seen her earlier – been introduced to her – and had watched her move about the room while he signed books and talked with fans. She was hard to miss, wearing a flowing, bright – almost neon – orange dress. In front, it ended just above her knees, but in back it fell to the mid-calf. Black four-inch ankle boots augmented what he estimated to be a height of 5'5".
He thought her nose was a bit flat, and her cheekbones broad, but she was beautiful – that was undeniable. She wasn't bone thin, possessing a healthy build, and bronze skin. Her straight, chestnut brown hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, then gathered to the left and allowed to cascade over her shoulder onto her chest. The vision of her striking green eyes was enhanced by rectangular, black framed eyeglasses. She carried an oversized handbag, clutching it to her body as she stood in front of him.
He tried to remember her name.
Lisa? Lindsay? he thought.
"Who are you, again?" he said, more than asked.
"I'm Linda," she said. "I'm a marketing manager for Stromboli vodka, the company sponsoring your signing."
"Ah, yes," he said. "Sorry, I meet a hundred new people at every one of these."
"That's OK," she said, smiling.
"No, it's not," he said. "A woman as beautiful as you should be remembered; even celebrated."
She laughed.
"I'm used to being in the background," she said. "If everything runs smoothly, nobody notices me."
"I noticed you," he said.
"Sure you did," she teased.
"I did," he assured her. "Especially your green eyes."
She knew he couldn't possibly see her eyes in the darkness of the balcony.
"So, Linda," he began, "what can I do for you?"
"Oh, nothing." she said. "I just wanted to make sure you're OK. And, to see if you need anything. We'll be out of here soon."
"I just came up here to get away for a few minutes," he said. "And, as for what I need, you can't give me that."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bother you," she said, turning to go.
"You're not," he said, quickly. "I didn't mean that. I just...I don't really like people...crowds. That's why I write, so I don't have to talk. Please, would you like to join me?"
She hesitated for a moment, then moved to the booth, set her bag on the seat, and sat across the table from him."
"But, you speak so well," she said. "I heard you answering questions."
"Thank you," he said. "I fake it."
"Not the words though," she said. "I mean, the stories you wrote; they aren't fake, are they?"
"Well, it is sold in the fiction section," Brian said.
"But, it says 'loosely based on actual events,'" Linda said.
"Yes, it does," he granted.
"How loosely?" she asked.
He laughed. Then, sensing her disappointment, he looked into her eyes for a few moments.
"I'll tell you this," he said. "Everything in those stories is either something I've done, or is a fantasy of mine – something I want to do."
"Where's the line?" she asked.
"What do you mean?" he asked in return.
"Which are experiences, and which are fantasies?" she asked.
He smiled.
"If I told you that, it might ruin the book," he said.
Neither spoke for nearly a minute.
"I wish I could be more like Gaby," she said, at last.
"How?" he asked.
"More open to new things," she said. "I mean, I'm no prude, but some of things she does – that you wrote about her doing – they just...I don't know."
"Turned you on?" he asked.
She turned her head away from him.
"You don't have to be embarrassed," he said. "I wrote the stories to turn people on. Fuck, I started writing them because they turned me on."
"Really?" she asked, looking into his eyes.
"Absolutely," he assured her.
She shifted in her seat.
"So, what do you like so much about Gaby?" he asked.
"I don't know," Linda said. "She takes chances. She loses control. And, she's a bit...dangerous."
"Well, she gives the control to Ben because she trusts him," Brian said. "She knows he loves her, and while she likes to be dominated, she knows he won't hurt her. They're a perfectly matched couple. They love each other. They can give and take, and talk about everything. And, there's no jealousy. That's why it's fantasy."
She laughed.
"Maybe that's what I want," she said. "I want to do all the things I read about in your book, but I need someone to take control...someone I can trust."
"Find him...or her," he said.
"It's not that easy," she said.
"So, no boyfriend?" he asked.
"I'm seeing someone," she said, almost reluctantly.
"But..." he said.
"He just...I don't know," she said, then paused for a moment. "Guys my age seem to think taking control means slapping my ass a few times, calling me their whore, and then forcing their cock down my throat until I gag."
"A big old thank you to modern porn," Brian sighed.
"It's not that I necessarily object to any of those things, but the guys just don't seem to get that I want to cum, too," she said, trailing off. "Your male characters understand."
"I don't know if it's an age thing, or an individual thing," Brian said. "I love making a woman cum. I love seeing her face; hearing the sounds she makes; feeling her body react. So, I guess that trickles down to the characters I write."
The other thing I hate, is when guys I've been with talk to their friends," she said. "I usually end up being called weird, or slut, or worse."
"There's no such thing as a 'slut,'" Brian said. "There's nothing wrong with liking to have sex. Or, liking to do things other people don't like."
"I know," she said, "but..."
"I've learned a lot of things in my life," he said, interrupting her. "And, one of the most important is that it doesn't mean shit. In a hundred years, you'll be dead, and very little of this will matter. What people think of you now or then won't mean a damned thing. Sure, you can change the world; bring about peace in the Middle East; cure cancer; win a dozen awards – it won't affect how your private life is judged. Whether you like to be handcuffed and spanked, or you get caught running naked through Times Square; if you like to be dominant or submissive; even if your ex- posts your 'No, Baby, I swear I'm the only one who'll ever see it' sex tape on-line; it might rate a line or two in your Wikipedia entry, and that's it. And, if you're dead – and if everyone you know, and who judged you, is dead too – what will you care? Too many people in this world give a shit about things that don't matter a bit; especially other people's shit. I figure, if you're not hurting someone else, and what you're doing works for you, fuck what other people think."
"I try to think like that," she said.
"It took me a long time to develop that attitude," Brian said. "Do you know why it took so long for me to publish Ben & Gabrielle? It wasn't because I couldn't find a publisher. Christ! After that 50 Shades crap came out, a monkey with a typewriter could publish erotica. It was because I worried about what people would think; what my parents would think; what their friends might say. I finally decided it didn't matter. Erotica is only part of what I write, and if they don't like it, they don't have to read it. And, if that's what I'm remembered for, so be it."
"I'll try," she said.
"Don't wait around thinking there will be a better time," he said. "There won't be. There is only time, and it goes a lot faster than you realize. Before you know it, you'll be 30. You'll go from 30 to 40 in about 10 minutes. And, from 40 to 50 even faster. Einstein, or Hawking, or whoever might argue with me, but time really does speed up as you get older."
He fell silent for a few moments.
"Oh, and one more thing," he said, raising his glass toward her. "Don't spend too much time sitting around, listening to old men spout off about what you should be doing."
She laughed.
"You're not old," she said.
"Sadly, I am," he said, "in body, at least. When I was your age, I thought 30 was old, and that I'd never get there. Shit, there were a few days when I was in the Army, I didn't think I'd make it to 22. Now, I'm 45 and there's very little I wouldn't trade to go back to 25 knowing what I know now."
"But, you can't go back," she said, before he could. "You have to do what you can with the time you've got, right?"
"That's right," he said, laughing.
She laughed, too. At that moment, the music playing on the first floor changed. The volume dropped significantly, and the pounding beat of dance music was replaced with a generic pop song. The whirling, multi-colored lights disappeared, and the overheads on the first floor came on. The large fluorescent lights increased the indirect illumination reaching the balcony.
Must be closing time, Brian thought.
"I should get back downstairs. My people are probably wondering where I disappeared to," she said, finally. "Thank you for talking to me like this."
She stood up, then turned to open her bag. After rifling through it for a few seconds, she pulled out a copy of Brian's book.
"Do you have the kitchen sink in there?" Brian asked.
"Everything but," she said. "I carry all the stuff I think we might possibly need in almost any situation."
"Ah, I like a woman who is prepared for anything," he said.
"Could I ask you to autograph this for me?" she asked, holding out the book.
"I'll tell you what," he said. "I'll sign it, if you do something for me."
"Of course," she said. "Anything you want."
"Take off your panties," he said, matter-of-factly.
